


Summer Child

by jusrecht



Series: Summer Child [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Dom/sub Undertones, I'm so sorry, M/M, Newt is 17, Summer 1914, and graves is around 30, and the title probably doesn't help, but not in most parts of the world in real life, legally an adult in the wizarding world, not-innocent!Newt, so proceed only if you're comfortable with the idea, they're both pretty messed up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-09-23 13:23:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 8
Words: 35,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9659297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jusrecht/pseuds/jusrecht
Summary: Summer 1914. War has broken across Europe. Percival comes to Highthorne, the Scamanders' family estate, both as Theseus' guest and a representative from MACUSA. There, he meets Newt.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So it went like this. I came across a description of Graves from the _Fantastic Beasts_ screenplay, where he was described as "very handsome, early middle age, his demeanor differs from those around him..." wait. Early middle age? Holy shit. Does that mean... forty? Okay, let's say that Graves is forty in the movie. Meanwhile Newt, as we know, was born in 1897, and the movie is set in 1926. Which means that he's 29. Oh my god. That's at least 10-11 years difference. 
> 
> Hell, yes. Hi age difference, my ultimate kink.
> 
> That's more or less how this fic came to be. Newt is 17. Graves, I put to be somewhere around 30 :D

 

Percival’s first impression of Mr and Mrs Scamander is one mixed with the strong scent of Earl Grey and rich chocolate.

 

He arrives at teatime and is immediately pulled into an enthusiastic embrace by a grinning Theseus. They haven’t met since the latter’s nine-month stint in New York City four years ago, part of the bilateral program to improve the increasingly rocky relationship between MACUSA and the British MoM. His friend, Percival notes with some pleasure, has hardly changed at all—still the same charming combination of flaming red hair, lively green eyes, and irreverent smiles, intensified by a force of personality of such magnitude that it never fails to command attention wherever and whenever.

 

“So glad that you can come down here early,” he says in a lower voice after the initial effusiveness of his welcome. Percival raises his eyebrows, but a gentle press on his shoulder keeps his question silent for the time being. Theseus is already turning around to introduce him to his parents.

 

“We are very pleased to have you staying with us.” Pleasantries flow easily from Mrs Scamander’s lips, after he has taken her hand. “Theseus talked so much about you.”

 

Theseus’ stepmother, Katarina, is a beautiful woman with midnight dark hair and elegant features. An excellent lady of the family, Theseus described her once, in that lazy, drifting silence between one drink and another at the end of a long day. Now Percival understands what he meant. Her ivory smooth beauty is a sure mark of her blood, but it’s her refined manners, the way she moves with such aristocratic fluidity, that truly leave no doubt in anyone’s mind of her highborn status.

 

Mr Scamander, on the other hand, strikes him as a man steeped in perpetual discontent. He must have been a handsome man, once upon a time, but what beauty there was is now marred by the creases on his brow, the constant frown, the small, deep ravines between his eyes—the same eyes Theseus has inherited, and yet with none of their vivacity or good humour. He shakes Percival’s hand with little more than a hint of a smile, varnished by perfunctory politeness, before retreating to his silent contemplation on one disagreeable subject or other.

 

Percival takes his seat next to Theseus in a high-backed sofa. A cup of tea is pressed into his hand, followed by a plate filled with pastries of all kind. It feels like he has been thrown back in time. Afternoon tea is a tradition that his life back in New York has largely dispensed with. To sit in front of a table laden with tea paraphernalia and plates of dainty cakes and tiers of scones and neatly cut sandwiches reminds him to his childhood, the scent of his grandmother’s perfume, her gentle fingers on his scalp—quite another lifetime.

 

The conversation flows quietly, along strictly formal lines. Mrs Scamander inquires after his family, his time at Ilvermorny, his choice of profession, all done with the most delicate civility. Proficient in the language of social graces, Percival is aware when a picture of a gracious hostess is being presented to him, and so responds accordingly. The Scamanders may be an old pureblood family, but it seems that his position as an Executive Auror and the right-hand man of MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security, in conjunction with his impeccable lineage, is enough to earn him a warm welcome.

 

“Where is Newt?” Mr Scamander suddenly speaks, emerging from his silence with an even deeper scowl.

 

“Away with his animals again, I suppose,” Mrs Scamander answers in a nonchalant tone, but her smile has gained a cool, brittle edge.

 

“He should be here,” Mr Scamander declares irritably.

 

“Maybe he’s just lost track of time,” Theseus interjects. There is an oddness in his voice that makes Percival glance at him, just in time to catch the strained half-smile thrown his way. “My brother is a real talent with creatures, magical or otherwise.”

 

“If you could call it 'talent',” Mr Scamander interrupts coldly.

 

“Especially considering the wide array of opportunities available for one so privileged.” Mrs Scamander sighs, as if unaware of the change in Theseus’ expression. “It is rather unfortunate that his interest lies solely in such a… peculiar direction.”

 

Silence stretches. There is a clink of china as she puts down her cup. Theseus, Percival notices, is now scowling at his parents, and the expression on his face is so like his father that no one can ever mistake them as anything but father and son.

 

“He wants to be a Magizoologist. Let him be.”

 

“There is no such thing as a ‘Magizoologist’, Theseus dear.”

 

Theseus’ face turns red with anger, but at that moment Mrs Scamander decides to steer the conversation to safer waters. Percival doesn’t think twice before following her lead, glad for an opportunity to escape from the brewing hostility. Father and son are still glowering at each other, but a constant chatter on the upcoming house party is fortunately enough to defuse some of the tension.

 

“Of course it’s all rather informal,” Mrs Scamander says mildly, after listing the many activities and entertainment planned for the event. Percival limits his answers to one or two harmless comments in return, just enough to keep the conversation going. (After all, how _informal_ a weekend party involving the British Minister of Magic and official representatives from MACUSA could be?)

 

“I suppose you hunt, Mr Graves?”

 

“I had the privilege to learn from my late grandfather.”

 

“Oh, do you mean former MACUSA President Erastus Graves?”

 

“Erastus Graves was my great-grandfather. My grandfather Vincentius Graves was Director of Magical Security during the American No-Maj Civil War.”

 

The topic returns to the many successes in his distinguished family. Percival bears it as well as he can until the questions lead to matrimonial realms—( _and you are… unmarried?_ )—at which point Theseus decides to rescue his friend and excuse themselves from the room.

 

“Come on, let’s find Newt.”

 

Percival follows him out of the house through a pair of French doors, down to the extensive grounds of the estate. The sun is blissfully warm on his face, with an open sky above and a soft trim of clouds across the serene blue. He tips his head backward, drinking in the summer air. Before his eyes is a vast parkland dotted by trees and bizarre stone statues, in the shapes of some creatures or other. Those, Theseus explains when he notices Percival’s gaze, are part of the estate’s protection charms, installed by a paranoid great-great-grandfather to guard the family against a hostile neighbouring clan.

 

“Your family history sounds rather colourful,” Percival says as they pass near one of the statues, this one a cross between a toad and a bird. There is a quiet thrum of magic in the air, and yet different from anything he has ever felt in his life. Older. Deeper. Subtler.

 

Theseus sighs, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “It’s the curse of all old families. _You_ ’d know, with your pedigree and all.”

 

“Nothing compared to yours. And this place, it’s really something.”

 

Theseus snorts. “It’s mostly for appearance, believe me. There’s really no purpose in maintaining so much Unplottable land at this day and age—except, of course, to show it off to envious neighbours and visiting guests.” He pauses, shooting Percival a wry, wistful smile. “I rather envy you, living in the States. None of this Sacred Families bull.”

 

“We have our share of aristocrat wannabes, believe me,” Percival tells him dryly.

 

That, at least, makes Theseus laugh. He is one of very few whom Percival has ever brought to the Graves’ family house in Vermont. Neither of them, he remembers, cared much for the experience. It has stood empty ever since, with only loyal house-elves tending to its care.

 

“You mustn’t worry about Katarina,” Theseus changes the subject as they walk to the direction of a forest that borders the land. “She’s always tossing her horde of nieces to the most eligible bachelors around. You, of course, are a very tempting prospect.”

 

Percival raises an eyebrow at this. “And you’re not?”

 

“She knows she won’t get anywhere with me,” Theseus says blithely, but Percival doesn’t miss the edge in his voice. Theseus lost his mother to an accident involving Hippogriffs when he was seventeen, mere weeks before his graduation from Hogwarts. He remembers the short, stilted letters that had lasted for months, until constancy prevailed and they slowly regained their old ease and cheerfulness. There was a passing mention of Theseus’ father’s second marriage about a year later, but the terse wordings discouraged Percival from offering more than a small, polite congratulation in return.

 

Percival himself was brought up by his grandfather, the most formidable and decorated Auror of his time. There was a period in his childhood where he liked to make up for what knowledge he lacked about his parents with great, romantic notions: brave defenders of justice, tragically silenced by their enemies; misunderstood geniuses, unfortunate victims to their own brilliance; undercover officers of the law, perishing in the line of duty.

 

The truth found him when he was fourteen. It was nothing short of a rude awakening, and for a long time, Percival hated Vincentius Graves for it; now, he thinks he understands his grandfather better, having walked the same rigid path of an Auror. There are blessings, even in disguise, and he certainly does not envy Theseus’ strained relationship with that bitter man he calls his father.

 

The forest is beautiful in summer. They follow a trail into its depth, the ground sloping gently under their feet. A rich, earthly scent fills his nose and the gentle sounds that caress his ears are such a far cry from the hustle and bustle of his city that Percival finds himself listening intently to every chirp and drone, rustle and snap.

 

“There he is.”

 

Percival’s first glimpse of Newton Scamander is even more memorable than that of his parents.

 

He notices, first, the pair of large, expressive eyes, so striking in their greenness that even the colour of his hair almost falls mute as the result; almost, because then he turns his head at his brother’s call and a shaft of sunlight falls upon it and drenches every strand with colour. The pale face that stares back at him is strange, a combination of too soft features and too sharp lines, and aside from the abundance of freckles, it bears virtually no resemblance to Theseus’.

 

He looks young, too young for his long limbs and the peculiar ease in his posture. Sitting high on a sturdy branch of a tree, he looks as much a part of the landscape as the leaves dangling over his head and the deep cracks carved into the tree trunk.

 

And he has a sleeping Jarvey in his lap.

 

“A Jarvey?” Theseus sounds both exasperated and amused. “Really, Newt?”

 

“Perfectly harmless, brother mine.”

 

His voice is soft and light, the words shaped by the same distinct accent as his brother’s and yet somehow sounding entirely different. Like clothes made in the same cut but from different fabrics.

 

“Come down,” Theseus tells him. “I want to introduce my friend.”

 

This is when the striking eyes finally settle on him. They are darker from this angle, but before Percival can determine their _exact_ colour, they already hide behind a sweep of thick, curly hair.

 

“Do you know what will happen if you forcefully wake a Jarvey from his sleep, Mr Graves?” the boy asks quietly.

 

Percival watches him for a moment before answering, “It will curse at you.”

 

There’s a hint of a smile curling on the corners of Newton’s mouth. “You’re not really ignorant, I see. Theseus’ friends usually only know how to throw hexes at each other.”

 

“That’s what Aurors usually do,” his brother says wryly.

 

“Neanderthals with wands, really.”

 

“Well, don’t force _this_ Neanderthal to hex you down the tree.”

 

Newton purses his lips. As if sensing an imminent change, the Jarvey stirs, eyes flashing, before breaking into a long string of disjointed insults. Percival winces, both at the volume and the vocabulary. His first instinct is to cast a quick _Silencio_ on the screaming Jarvey, but then Newton’s hand moves, fingers slightly parted as they sink into thick brown fur, caressing down the length of its back. He repeats the motion until the creature quietens, screeches petering out to soft, high-pitched whines.

 

“Good boy,” he murmurs, smiling in a way that reminds Percival to young mothers. “Off you go now.”

 

The Jarvey makes no move, only its beady eyes darting between Percival and Theseus. Newton sighs and carefully removes the creature from his lap. There is a soft whine of protest, but the Jarvey doesn’t try to reclaim its throne, watching mournfully, instead, as Newton comes down with an easy leap.

 

“What? I already missed teatime, didn’t I?”

 

Theseus rolls his eyes, but no one can miss the softness in them when he looks at his brother. “Yes, you dodged that all right. But you can’t miss dinner.”

 

“Because we have a guest?”

 

“Don’t embarrass my friend.”

 

Newton glances his way, but once more, his gaze doesn’t linger. “Are you easily embarrassed, Mr Graves?” he asks instead, staring at a spot somewhere to Percival’s left.

 

Percival smiles. “There has been no proof of that so far.”

 

“He’s a cold-hearted bastard,” Theseus declares firmly.

 

Newton hums, a small quirk of his lips. “That sounds like a challenge.”

 

“Little brother,” Theseus warns, wrapping an arm around Newton’s neck in a playful chokehold. “Do behave yourself.”

 

The smile widens into a grin. “I’ll try.”

 

_**End Chapter 1** _

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still laying more groundwork in this chapter. And Theseus is so chatty idk.  
> 

 

Percival is attending to the delicate complexities of assembling a bow tie when Theseus knocks on his door.

 

“You’re such a snob.” Theseus is grinning broadly as he watches the process with lazy interest. “One of the best wizards with wandless magic and you’re doing the whole thing by hand.”

 

“It’s different, you’d know if you ever bothered to learn,” Percival tells him mildly, fixing the knot under a pair of starched collars. The old practice sits comfortably on his fingers, a well-trodden course reminiscent to long summer evenings and countless social parties of New York high society.

 

“Like I said,” Theseus sighs, shaking his head, “an absolute snob. You’re completely beyond help, old chap.”

 

“Says the person who wears formal dress robes for dinner at home.”

 

Theseus smirks. “As much as I hate to disappoint you, it’s not me. It’s my family. We cling to traditions like rust to old blades.”

 

‘Cling’ is an apt word, Percival silently agrees. The bed in his room, for example, is a true relic of bygone days, with its heavy wooden frame, lavishly embroidered cover, and dark, tasselled canopy. Every piece of furniture seems to be at least a century old, polished to gleaming perfection. The flickering candlelight gilds every surface gold, which only heightens the impression of antiquity.

 

This ostentatious display only makes Percival long for the bright efficiency of electricity in his New York brownstone. It’s rather an irony that for all their strict rules regarding interactions with No-Majs, American wizards prove to be far more familiar with No-Maj technologies compared to their British brethren.

 

“I don’t think I ever saw you in dress robes before.” Theseus observes him in the mirror, a thoughtful look on his face. “In New York, you always wore Muggle clothes.”

 

“You knew it was MACUSA’s policy, especially for us Aurors who have to be able to blend in with the No-Maj's at any given time.” Percival adjusts the pearl buttons on his vest before turning his attention to his cufflinks. “It’s been a while since I wore one of these formal robes.”

 

“What a coincidence that you brought one down here.”

 

He catches Theseus’ eyes in the mirror, smiling wryly. “I brought _several_. Seraphina sat us down and gave us all a long lecture on the many absurd traditions of your old British sacred families. Including dress robes for dinner.”

 

“Formidable woman, your Seraphina,” Theseus declares with an admiring sigh. “Is she still unmarried? Unattached? Unrivalled by no one but her magnificent self?

 

“You’re not flirting with my president’s chief of staff, Scamander.”

 

“Afraid that I will sweep her off her feet and convert her to our absurd British ways, Graves?

 

The idea of Seraphina Picquery succumbing to the pesky customs of British sacred families is so laughable that Percival doesn’t hesitate to do just that. “You think you _can_ sweep her off her feet? Fine, go ahead and try. Don’t bother screaming my name when she reduces you to pixie dust.”

 

“Some friend, you are.”

 

Percival straightens the front of his dress robe before finally turning around to face Theseus. “So. Why am I here?”

 

It earns him a look of deep reproach. “Couldn’t I invite a good friend for a short stay without being accused of harbouring ulterior motives?”

 

“You could, but you wouldn’t be Theseus Scamander.”

 

“Percy, I’m hurt.”

 

“Spill.”

 

Theseus hesitates, pacing a little before settling in an empty armchair. “The thing is, I’m not so sure.”

 

“Really? So I’m here just to enjoy the English countryside?”

 

“It’s the English countryside _in summer_ ,” Theseus corrects him, smirking faintly, “which makes all the difference, believe me.”

 

“And you asked me to come down three days early because it happened to be summer?”

 

“No.” Theseus’ smile disappears, so quickly like it has been ripped off his face. In its place is naked worry, far less fitting on a mouth so used to laughter. “The truth is, I’ve been thinking about the war.”

 

“Haven’t we all?” The war, after all, is the reason for the weekend meeting soon taking place under the disguise of a fashionable house party. Not that the disguise will remotely fool anyone of consequence in the political sphere of the wizarding world, but, as Percival has learned from an early age, appearances are appearances.

 

“I wasn’t talking about the meeting. Well, it _has_ something to do with the meeting, but not really because this actually is the beginning of the whole thing, except not really–”

 

“Theseus.”

 

“I met the French Minister of Magic the other day,” Theseus finally blurts out. “Do you know that he was in that Muggle war between France and Prussia in 1870?”

 

“No, I don’t.”

 

“Well, he was. And last week he personally came here to talk to Evermonde.”

 

“To try and persuade your minister, I suppose?”

 

“His exact words were, we’re all humans, members of the same race, and wizards cannot stand blithely by while the rest of humanity is killing each other.”

 

Percival is silent for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Some would say that it’s not necessarily a bad thing,” he says at last, meeting the hard stare fixed on his person.

 

Theseus scowls. “Believe me, you don’t have to point that out. I’ve had that argument thrown to my face every day for the past week. All I want to know is whether I can count on your support.”

 

“ _My_ support? What can I do?”

 

A ghost of a smile flickers across Theseus’ face. “Let’s see, what can you do? What kind of influence can you possibly have, being the head of your family? After all, it’s just the tip of the iceberg, isn’t it?”

 

Percival matches the smile with one of his own. “You’ve heard the stories, I see. The thing is, most of them are not true. I’m just an Auror.”

 

“For the moment.”

 

It’s an offer. Percival has learned to recognise that particular tone of voice since he was seven, trailing after his grandfather to meetings and functions, sifting through angry blusters and sugary smiles and terrified whimpers. He considers his friend, one player to another. For all his cheerfulness and open temper, Theseus is a Scamander—and the heir, no less, as embroiled in politics as he is.

 

He does wonder, at times, just how much Theseus knows about the workings of MACUSA and the power stronghold that is the American wizarding society. Or whether he has come across the saying “ _one deal with the Graves will follow you to the grave”_ during his New York stay. Or if he has guessed that Percival inherited from his grandfather not only the family head’s mantle, but also its entire legacy.

 

“You want to join the war.” It’s a statement, not a question.

 

Theseus holds his gaze, calm and unwavering. “It’s not a question of ‘want’. It’s the right thing to do.”

 

“We don’t know what the right thing is at this stage.”

 

“Yes, we do.”

 

“And then there’s still the Statute of Secrecy.”

 

“The Statute can go to hell. We’re talking about human lives.”

 

Percival looks away, hiding a small smile. “All I can tell you is President Thesiger is still on the fence about this.”

 

“What about Picquery?”

 

“You’ll have to ask her when she arrives.”

 

Theseus groans. “If you really want me to spend the rest of my life as pixie dust–”

 

A train of knocks interrupts his protest. Percival turns and finds Newton at the door, messy hair falling across his eyes.

 

“Excuse me, have you seen my brother?”

 

“You have the _lousiest_ timing in the world,” Theseus declares, glaring at his brother.

 

It earns him a faint, curious smile. “Why? Am I interrupting something?”

 

Theseus makes a face at the insinuation. “What do you want?”

 

“I can’t find my white tie,” Newton explains, inviting himself in. His dress robe, Percival notices, is inches too short, exposing his thin ankles.

 

“You’re not getting out of dinner, little brother.”

 

“I _really_ can’t find my white tie.”

 

“Every house elf in this place worships the ground you walk on and you’re telling me not one of them can get you a white tie?”

 

“I might have told them to destroy every spare in the house yesterday.” This answer is delivered in a straight, almost disinterested tone that only makes Theseus narrow his eyes.

 

“Why would you do that?”

 

“To make sure that I don’t have to attend dinner downstairs ever again. Which isn’t really working, sadly.”

 

“Why would you– never mind. Here.” Theseus rises with a sigh, pulling his tie off. “You can have mine. I’ll just Transfigure something–”

 

“No.” Newton is just as quick to stop his brother, his fingers, long and pale, firm around Theseus’ wrist. “I’m not taking yours. It’s too nice to go with my old robe.”

 

Theseus frowns. “I bought you a new one last Christmas.”

 

“Left it at Hogwarts.”

 

Theseus’ lips twitch. Percival starts counting to three, but barely makes it to two when one of those twitches splits into a grin. “I have to admit, you’re really doing _everything_ you can to avoid being forced to attend dinner. But come on, Newt. I’m not in the mood to listen to a lecture from dearest Papa all through dessert.”

 

“That’s why I was wondering if I could borrow your spare.”

 

“Not sure where I put it,” Theseus mutters with a sigh, but allows Newton to fix his tie with a flick of his wand.

 

“Or you can sneak down to his room and steal one of his.”

 

Theseus shoots him a wry smile before Disapparating. Left alone with Newton, Percival considers this young man standing in the middle of his room. Theseus dotes on him, that much is obvious— _has been_ obvious to Percival since the early stages of their correspondence. This willingness to follow his little brother’s whims at any cost, however, is something else entirely.

 

“Actually, I could have asked you,” Newton suddenly says, eyes fixed on the buttons of Percival’s vest.

 

“You could have,” Percival agrees after a pause. There is a shift in the atmosphere in the room and he is conscious of the many questionable roads to which this conversation might lead. For the moment, he is content to wait and see where Newton will take it.

 

“Besides, Theseus might not find his spare, being him.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

“So,” Newton glances up, only briefly, “do you have a spare, Mr Graves?”

 

Percival’s answer is to open his palm and offers his second white tie, summoned from the depth of his trunk. Newton looks at it, his face a study in speculations. Percival can almost hear the wheels in his brain turning.

 

“Will you do it for me?”

 

Now _that_ he didn’t expect. Percival watches him, amusement stirring. “If you wish,” he replies with a shrug, allowing the illusion of indifference. “Come closer.”

 

Newton obeys. The veneer of his calm persists until Percival touches his shoulders, slipping the tie under his collar.

 

“Oh,” he breathes out. “You’re doing it by hand.”

 

Percival hums, saying nothing, any hint of smiles firmly turned inward. He takes his time with the loops and knots, fingers less practiced from this side. If sometimes they brush against Newton’s neck or the smooth curve of his jaw, then it may as well be part of the process.

 

Newton keeps himself still, staring resolutely at Percival’s tie.

 

“Raise your face.”

 

The boy tenses, but here, like this, he’s completely under Percival’s mercy, and he knows it too. Slowly, his head tilts, angled slightly to the left, exposing the length of his neck without baring too much. The movement is so subtle, so _practiced_ that Percival cannot convince himself that it isn’t. Newton still keeps his gaze lowered and Percival stifles an urge to make the boy look at him. So close, he can see the long lashes fluttering, flirting with the generous sweep of freckles across pale cheeks.

 

“You’re very good with your hands,” Newton suddenly says, his voice deeper, quieter, almost a whisper.

 

“I am.” This time, Percival cannot quite keep his amusement away. He recognises this scene, that of an initiate who boldly, perhaps foolishly, practices his newly-gained skills on the master of the order himself. And yet there is something endearingly innocent in it, and he would be interested to examine it further if not for Theseus’ interruption.

 

“Couldn’t find it. I must’ve left it in London some– oh. Is that yours, Perce?”

 

“He tied it by hand,” Newton says, stepping away. He has his fingers linked behind his back, clutching at one another.

 

Theseus confirms for the third time that his friend is, indeed, a veritable snob and enlarges upon the subject as they go down for dinner.

 

Percival doesn’t miss it when they make a turn on the landing and Newton raises his hand, unconsciously, to touch the side of his neck.

 

_**End Chapter 2** _

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The obligatory “let’s get big brother out of the way so the two can have a tête-à-tête” chapter :D

 

Percival comes down to breakfast on Wednesday morning to the sight of Theseus fuming in front of the sideboard, a letter in hand.

 

“Those fuckers.” His friend crushes the paper into a ball before setting it on fire. Blackened fragments hiss and drift slowly in the air, some landing on his hair and robe.

 

“An emergency?”

 

Theseus sighs, running a distracted hand through his neatly combed hair. “Not exactly. Two witnesses have refused to appear on the Dolohov trial. I was the one who found them, so the Wizengamot wants _me_ to bring them in before the trial later at noon.”

 

“Anything I can do to help?”

 

“You’re a guest.” Theseus waves a hand and starts piling his plate with slices of ham. “Besides, I can’t imagine my boss liking it much, getting help from someone in your position.”

 

Percival only smiles. The rivalry between the British and American Aurors is practically tradition by now. Any real cause, if such ever existed, is lost in the mire of time.

 

He helps himself to bacon and eggs and sits down for breakfast. After the uncomfortable dinner last night—mostly owing to Mr Scamander finding what fault he could with his second son—Percival is rather glad to have the dining room to themselves. With sunlight streaming in from many open windows, the room takes a cheerful aspect it lacked on the night before. Theseus, always quick to recover from any disappointment, tells him about the Dolohov trial and its many controversies, including the legal difficulties to build a solid case without the presence of witnesses who are not dead terrified of the defendant’s payback.

 

Newton finally makes an appearance when they have almost finished.

 

“Newt, brother dear.” The change in Theseus is palpable and Percival has to smother a wince at the overly sweet, overly cheerful voice he has suddenly adopted. Newton narrows his eyes.

 

“You have to go, don’t you?”

 

Theseus launches into a long spiel about the unexpected change of plans, generously sprinkled with passionate apologies (“You know I wouldn’t abandon you unless someone died—and someone _did_ die! Hence the trial!”) as well as plenty of abuse against inconsiderate bosses and the old codgers in Wizengamot. Newton listens in silence, frowning as he munches on his toast distractedly.

 

“This is just _so_ like you,” is his sullen verdict at the end of this rather impressive rambling.

 

Theseus practically wilts. “It’s not like I’m doing this on purpose,” he mutters.

 

“Well, whatever. I’ll show Mr Graves around if he likes.”

 

Percival stares. Theseus blinks. “You’ll _what_?”

 

For once, Newton looks at him and doesn’t glance away, his face inscrutably blank. “Shall we meet outside an hour from now, Mr Graves?” he offers, and then rises and leaves the room without waiting for an answer.

 

“That little–”

 

Percival cannot quite hide the smile persistently tugging at his lips. “Your brother is quite something, isn’t he?”

 

Theseus throws his arms out in frustration. “He’s always like this, doing things his own way and never giving a damn about anything else.”

 

“I wonder where he learned that from.”

 

That earns him a smirk. “Well, when you put it like that.”

 

“And clearly he knows he can get away with it,” Percival points out with an arched brow.

 

Theseus winces. “Yes, I know I’m so pathetically weak when it comes to Newt, but I can’t help it, alright?” He sighs, affection drowning any hint of exasperation in it. “It’s just... I don’t know why, but he never likes doing things properly. In fact, he goes out of his way to do things _not_ properly.”

 

“Teenage rebellion phase?”

 

“Worse. He really, genuinely doesn’t care what other people think. Which, to be perfectly honest, isn’t always a bad thing.” Theseus frowns, in that painful, self-conscious way reserved only for contemplations on the unfortunate failings of one’s parents. This disagreeable line of thought, however, is quick to be dismissed and he soon returns to their more immediate concern with renewed vigour. “Seriously, Perce, are you sure you don’t mind? Newt can be difficult if you don’t know him that well.”

 

“I’m sure we’ll get along just fine,” Percival assures him.

 

 

–

 

 

His optimism, as it turns out, is more or less justified.

 

Newton, appearing ten minutes late, suggests an exploration to the moor. Percival, indifferent to the last degree to anything concerning nature, lets him have his way with one proviso: that he, the older and bigger man, should be the one to carry the picnic basket, charmed and laden with so much food it can as well feed an army.

 

Newton rolls his eyes but relinquished the basket—if not without a soft murmur of accusation: “Do you have to be in this much control over _everything_?”

 

“Yes,” Percival answers easily, hiding a smile at Newton’s small scoff.

 

The 'excursion' itself, he must admit, is not wholly unpleasant. He rather enjoys the exercise, and the open sky, pale blue and dotted with clouds here and there, is a welcome change to the smoke-choked patches of grey he is more accustomed to in his city. Newton does not talk much, content to swim in his own thoughts and tend to his own interests. A few times, he will stop to observe some bugs or other, or a hole in the ground, or, when they meander into a sparsely wooded area, a snake skin that he carefully stores inside an expandable container.

 

“Are you at all interested in creatures?” Newton asks once, after a long period of uninterrupted silence.

 

It takes Percival a moment to resurface from the endless burrows of his mind and realign his thoughts. “I’m afraid not,” he says, only mildly apologetic. “But feel free to keep doing what you’re doing, I don’t mind.”

 

Newton shrugs, turning away. He seems used to such a response and the thought stirs some of Percival’s pity. He watches the boy, the way he moves lightly among heathers and brambles, dancing from rock to rock, completely at ease in this environment. Every now and then, he will make a sound unlike anything Percival has ever heard in his life, and a few seconds later there will be a reply. Then he will smile, soft and pleased and so utterly unself-conscious, although the animals rarely ever show themselves.

 

Theseus was clearly not exaggerating his brother’s interest on creatures, magical or otherwise. Many of them seem to like him in return. There are strange birds hovering just out of reach, and then hares, silently watching their progress with large, beady eyes. When they finally stop on the top of a small hill for lunch, a long, mud-coloured snake comes to curl at Newton’s feet.

 

“Don’t worry about her,” Newton says, noticing the look on Percival’s face.

 

“How do you know it’s a ‘her’?”

 

“Easy enough.” The expression on the boy’s face is nothing short of a challenge. “Would you like to learn?”

 

Percival smiles. “Why not? Do educate me.”

 

He soon finds himself lost in the meandering explanations of tail lengths and girths and measurements that involve the snake’s cloaca, of all things. Newton Transfigures a male snake of the same species for easier comparison, followed by parchment and quills to illustrate the differences better. Percival watches him, amazed—recognising, for the first time, the obvious similarities between the Scamander brothers. Both are extremely passionate when it comes to subjects they care about, green eyes alight with fervour, freckled face open, smiling.

 

“You said you weren’t interested in nature,” Newton says after he has made sure that his impromptu student _can_ see the subtle differences between the sexes, to the older man’s amusement.

 

“I’m not, really,” Percival answers with a shrug, “but some knowledge might be useful one day.”

 

Newton throws him one last thoughtful look before retreating into his usual cocoon of silence.

 

Lunch is good but mostly quiet. Percival is rather glad for it. He never minds silence—preferring it, in fact, to inane chatters and small talks. And Newton is such a strange boy that Percival finds himself accepting everything he does at face value.

 

Silence takes a different quality here, so far from humanity and civilisation. It falls over his ears like a thick woollen blanket, heavy and drowning, with only the occasional wind to interrupts its reign. He cannot help but find it strange, so used he is to the commotion, the bustles of New York City. Strange, but not uncomfortable—rather like his present company.

 

After the meal, he settles down with a book he has borrowed earlier from the library. Newton occupies himself with copying the diamond-like patterns of their new snake friend onto a parchment, taking bites from an apple in between. Half an hour or so passes comfortably in this manner until Newton suddenly breaks his silence.

 

“Why are you here?”

 

Percival looks up from his book. Newton is now scribbling some notes on the margin of his sketches (very good ones, he notices), head bent low, and yet he is clearly waiting for an answer.

 

“Getting to know the English countryside, I suppose.”

 

“No, I mean,” Newton pauses, still not glancing up, “why are you here in England?”

 

“Oh, that.” Percival shrugs. “I’m part of the American diplomatic entourage for the so-called weekend meeting.”

 

“I thought you were an Auror.”

 

“I am.”

 

“But you’re invited to the meeting,” Finally, a glance, quick, appraising but wary. “You must have quite an influence.”

 

“Why does it matter?”

 

Newton does not answer. He takes one last bite from his apple and then Transfigures the core into a pack of mice, which he sends running to different directions for the snake to pursue. Percival watches the glow of magic in his eyes, the green so striking against his unnaturally pale skin—the type of skin that bruises easily.

 

He blinks. Where did that thought come from?

 

“It’s about the Muggle war, isn’t it?” the boy suddenly speaks again. “The meeting.”

 

“More or less.”

 

“It’s a Muggle war. Why should we care?”

 

“It’s a large-scale conflict, with a troubling potential to become even larger. Our world won’t be unaffected, even if we try to avoid it.”

 

Newton looks away, frowning. “I heard people talking about joining in. Won’t that be dangerous for us? Statute of Secrecy and all.”

 

“Perhaps, but this might be one of those times when we can’t just stay and watch.”

 

“So you think we should go to war.”

 

“I think we should wait and see.” Percival sits up, finally abandoning his book. “Why the interest? You’re still at school, aren’t you?”

 

“Last year at Hogwarts. I’m of age.”

 

“Really? You seem younger.”

 

“I’m not.” A frown makes its presence known on Newton’s brow. “Why is everyone treating me like a child?”

 

Percival resists a grin. “Because you are? Seventeen is a painfully young age.”

 

That makes the boy turn, looking at him—properly. Percival almost smiles at this small victory but contents himself with returning Newton’s gaze. What a strange colour his eyes are, somewhere between green and blue, with specks of yellow that gives the impression of clarity, except there is no clarity in their depth. They hide, those eyes, more than reveal.

 

His assessment is proven correct when Newton moves, as quickly as a cat, and climbs into his lap. His movement is sure, fluid, and Percival has barely processed this new turn of event when he finds the boy’s lips on his, a hard, brief press that leaves a trail of the tartness from the apple he just ate.

 

Then Newton withdraws, only far enough to observe his reaction. Those eyes still regard him, his forehead, his nose, his cheeks, his mouth, everything but his eyes. Percival watches him in return, and this time he cannot resist a smile.

 

“Well, this is unexpected.”

 

“Is it?” Newton returns, locking his fingers behind Percival’s neck. “I don’t believe you’re quite that stupid, Mr Graves.”

 

“It still begs the question why.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“That’s not an answer.” Percival shifts, but the boy will not budge from his lap. He sighs, resigned to arrange himself into a more comfortable position, one arm curled on Newton’s hip. “Is this some kind of need to prove yourself?”

 

“You may think what you like.” Newton’s voice is cool, indifferent. His fingers prove to be the vastly more interested party, two of them slowly exploring the length of Percival’s neck while a thumb rubs back and forth, across the stubbles on his chin.

 

Well, Percival thinks, interest stirring, _damn_.

 

“But I do have a question,” Newton says again, eyes flicking up briefly. “Is there something between you and my brother?”

 

“Why do you ask?”

 

“Because it might be awkward if I try to seduce my brother’s boyfriend.”

 

“It _might_ be awkward?”

 

“Are you?” The thumb stops, on the corner of his lips, a promise just hovering out of reach. “His boyfriend?”

 

Percival takes that impudent hand and forces it down, away from his face. “No, I’m not,” he says firmly. Whatever amusement he might have allowed, he has absolutely no intention to admit to any early attraction in his past, especially not to this strange, elfin thing in his arms.

 

Newton does not resist. His hand falls slack, docile, in Percival’s grip. “That sounds almost like regret.”

 

“You may think what you like.”

 

A small smirk touches Newton’s lips. “Touché.”

 

“I’m far too old for you,” Percival points out dryly.

 

“Are you?” A second, lighter kiss brushes his lips. “Marvellous.”

 

“And you’re just trying to upset your parents.”

 

“That too,” Newton readily admits, a smile quirking his mouth, “but mostly I just want to kiss you, Mr Graves.”

 

And then he does just that, properly.

 

 

–

 

 

Theseus is in a foul mood.

 

They find him in the library, shouting into the fireplace. There are murmured replies coming from the crackling flames, stiflingly hot for such a warm summer day, but Theseus’s interruptions are loud and constant before he finally ends the conversation with a few choice expletives.

 

Only then does he turn around and notice the presence of his brother and friend. Surprised, fury slackens its hold and he forces a smile on his face. “Hello, you two. Had a good day?”

 

Newton frowns. “What was that about?”

 

“Nothing to concern you.”

 

The frown morphs into a fierce scowl. “Fine, be that way,” he snaps, marching out of the room.

 

Percival sees the regret, almost as devastating as heartbreak, wash across his friend’s expression, and sighs. He steps further into the room, avoiding the outrageous heat from the fireplace, and flings every window open with his magic. The cool breeze that immediately waltzes in is a blessing.

 

Theseus slumps into a chair, looking as miserable as Percival has ever seen him. “I’m a terrible brother,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

 

Percival notices a pitcher of cold lemonade standing on a corner table and pours them a glass each. “What’s the matter?”

 

Theseus runs a hand across his face. “That was my boss. We had a… disagreement.”

 

“That’s how you talked to your boss?”

 

That earns him a startled burst of laugh. “I know. I’m honestly surprised that he hasn’t sacked me yet.”

 

“Was it about the witnesses?”

 

“Witnesses?” Theseus takes a sip from his glass before draining it in one go. “Oh, no, that’s all done and over with. This is Evermonde. He’s scheduling an emergency meeting tomorrow, no doubt to talk about the war before the house party on Friday.”

 

“Are you invited?” Percival asks as he refills their glasses.

 

Another short bark of laughter. “Hell, no. He knows where I stand. He knows that I’d raise the most terrible row if I could get a word in—and I _would_.” There is a pause, and then Theseus straightens up, leaning toward him, sombreness a cloak across his shoulders. “Perce, in all honesty, would _you_ go to war?”

 

Percival says nothing for a long moment and considers his friend instead. Theseus’s face is a mix of determination and despair, with a fire that burns low under that taut, handsome exterior. He always does feel things _too_ strongly, take things too closely to his heart. That look reminds Percival to those hazy days of chasing down criminals and rogue wizards. Theseus was always the first out of the door, the first to take action, the first to launch into a passionate tirade, the first to shed tears for the victims.

 

Percival is different. He can never feel too much about anything. To him, upholding justice is a matter of integrity, of pride, of preserving the stability of their community—and, to certain extent, ensuring the position of his family. More than once, these differences have caused a row between them, Theseus’s unstoppable will against Percival’s wall of stubbornness. 

 

And yet, somehow, they managed to get along—very well too, at that—and this friendship stubbornly persists until now. They both know that despite everything, despite Percival’s layers and subterfuges, Theseus can count on him being honest about things that truly matter.

 

“For the right reasons,” he finally answers.

 

Theseus’s smile is wry and far from surprised. “You’re such a cold bastard,” he complains, but it’s an old banter by now and has long lost its venom.

 

“Is your minister leaning toward no, then?” 

 

“There are indications in that direction.” Theseus sighs, sinking back into his plush seat. “This is all so rotten. Most of the higher-ups don’t want us to get involved in any way. Cowards, the lot of them.”

 

“And your boss? The Head of DMLE?”

 

“He’s not too thrilled either, but I reckon he feels a bit guilty. He wants me to be there with him tomorrow, for the meeting.”

 

Percival stares at his friend in disbelief. “He’s bringing you to the meeting with Evermonde?”

 

“That’s what he said.”

 

“Then why the hell were you yelling at him?”

 

Theseus breaks into another helpless bout of laughter. “I don’t know. I was just… angry at so many things. In my defence, I might be yelling at him, but it _wasn’t_ about him.”

 

“Still.”

 

“Yes, yes.” Theseus rises, rolling his eyes. “I’ll firecall him now and apologise.”

 

“Apologise to your brother too.”

 

“I’ll bring flowers and chocolate and grovel on my knees. See you later at dinner.”

 

Percival is still shaking his head in amusement when he leaves the library—only to find Newton outside, leaning against the wall, hands hidden behind his back. He is frowning slightly and he meets Percival’s reproachful gaze with a defiant stare.

 

“What?”

 

“Has no one ever told you what bad manner it is to eavesdrop on other people’s conversation?”

 

“Don’t be pedestrian,” is the careless retort. “It’s so boring.”

 

“Is it,” Percival deadpans.

 

“And it doesn’t suit you.”

 

“What does then?”

 

He knows it’s a challenge and he _knows_ the boy will hear it as a challenge. What he doesn’t quite expect is for Newton to pull him by the tie and kiss him—two, three seconds with their lips pressed against each other, in full sight of anyone who might pass. Or Theseus, should he decide to step out of the room now.

 

“This,” Newton says, smiling faintly. “Although has no one ever told you, Mr Graves, what bad manner it is to kiss seventeen-year-old boys? And yet you seem to have made it a habit.”

 

“I believe you kissed me,” Percival points out, ignoring the bold leg sliding between his thighs.

 

“I don’t hear you complaining.”

 

“Maybe I should.”

 

“But you won’t.”

 

Percival doesn’t reply; he lets his magic speak for him, pushing Newton away and pinning his hands above his head. The surprised gasp slipping out of that sinful mouth makes him grin as he steps back, considering this sight before his eyes. It’s a very attractive sight. Surprise has stripped away any veneer of lazy indifference or pretence at boldness. The boy’s eyes, wide and anxious, are watching him, anticipation and uncertainty warring in them.

 

Percival smiles, reaching across the gap between them to stroke a freckled cheek.

 

“Behave,” he says, and then turns around to leave.

 

_**End Chapter 3** _

__


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the slow update. Still, I hope you'll all enjoy this longer chapter.
> 
> And please mind the the Explicit rating starting from the end of this one :D

“–but there were examples in the past when wizards didn’t get involved.”

 

Percival looks at the boy walking ahead of him with a mix of amusement and exasperation. Curiosity can be endearing, especially on a sweet, young face, made even lovelier with the fresh joy of learning and asking questions and discovering a new morsel of knowledge at every turn. Percival, on his part, has no objection to assume the role of a mentor for a while.

 

This, however, is not exactly curiosity. This is Newton Scamander trying to prove a point.

 

“Take the American Civil War,” Newton continues. “You stayed out of that.”

 

Percival allows himself a deep, resigned sigh before preparing a return argument. “The situation in the American wizarding society is vastly different. It was even more so back then. Witch-hunts might not be as prevalent as they had been a century earlier, but the horror was fresh in everybody’s mind. Among the No-Majs themselves, there was still deep fear of magic. Staying out of any No-Maj’s conflict was the only sensible choice. Where are we going again?”

 

“It’s not far,” is the offhand reply. “And don’t change the subject.”

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Newton ignores this bit of sarcasm. “What about the Napoleonic Wars?” he says instead. “Our interference made it worse, didn’t it?”

 

Percival falls silent, recalling the many uncomfortable details he has learned from old history lessons. “True,” he says at last. “It was one disaster after another from the beginning. The Battle of Leipzig was the worst. Had we not interfered, perhaps the number of casualties wouldn’t have been so great.”

 

Newton throws him a look over his shoulder. “So you admit that magical interference in a problem rooted in the Muggle world can end up making said problem much, much worse.”

 

“ _Any_ interference can end up making a problem worse than it initially was,” Percival points out with a frown. “What is this really about?”

 

Newton offers no answer and returns his attention to the sloping path ahead in silence. Percival resists another urge to sigh. He begins to suspect that the sole purpose of this ‘walk’ is to debate him on the merits of magical interference on non-magical conflicts.

 

The suggestion was innocuous enough—although, as he is quickly learning, ‘innocuous’ may not be a word to be associated with Newton Scamander, ever. With the elder Scamander brother engaged in a meeting for the better part of the day, Percival found himself once more in the younger’s care. Newton accepted Theseus’s announcement after dinner last night with little more than a shrug, behaving much the same as he always was despite what had transpired only hours before.

 

This morning, he proposed a short walk; a stroll into the woods, since they had conquered hills and moors yesterday. Theseus took one look at his brother and declared that he would like to have his American friend back in one piece if possible. Newton had his eyes fixed on his own plate, but Percival could see the smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He spent the rest of the breakfast wondering what dangers might lurk in the depth of the forest which merited that kind of warning from Theseus.

 

Whatever he had in mind, debating the merits of war for the entire trip is definitely not one of them.

 

At least Newton does not seem to treat him any differently. When the boy started their stroll by lining up his arguments on the side of non-interference, Percival found himself smiling. The truth is, he likes Newton enormously, wilful and unpredictable as he is. The rest of his visit would have been far less pleasant if there had been any lingering awkwardness between them after his actions yesterday. They were rather thoughtless, he now admits. Kissing a perfectly willing partner is one thing; kissing a teenage boy who is not only much younger than himself but also the son of his hostess and the younger brother of his good friend is pretty much an invitation to disaster.

 

Newton, meanwhile, has moved his argument from Europe to Asia.

 

“It was the involvement of the Chinese magical community that stirred the European wizards into action and getting involved. And the result was disastrous.”

 

“You didn’t take a number of factors into account,” Percival answers as he ducks to avoid some low-lying branches. “For the Chinese, it was a matter of defending their country. Would you, seeing your country ravaged by others, stand silent and not help? In this matter, it’s no longer a question of magical or non-magical people.”

 

“You’re saying that the same theory will apply to the French. Once war comes to their country, they will automatically join in.”

 

“It’s only natural. If a hostile foreign power were to invade this island, would you sit on your hands and do nothing? Instead of trying everything you can to drive them away, Statute of Secrecy be damned?”

 

Newton is silent for a moment. “But if it’s ultimately for the best…”

 

“Now you’re arguing for the sake of arguments,” Percival says dryly. “It’s easy to see how things stood after the fact. When it actually happened, however, clarity of sight was nearly impossible. Everyone only did what they thought best.”

 

“Is that how people forgive their own mistakes?”

 

The sardonic tone gives Percival pause for a moment. “We live as best as we can,” he says neutrally at last.

 

Newton makes a short, exasperated sound. “Do you always have to answer _everything_?”

 

Percival hides a smile. “I try.”

 

“You must be a total pain in the arse to work with.”

 

“So they say.”

 

Later, he will blame his preoccupation with Newton’s arguments for his lapse of attention on their surroundings. The change has come so gradually that he barely registers it as they follow the trail through endless ranks of indefinable trees. It’s a blooming forest at the height of summer, a tapestry of green and brown. The ground is soft under their feet and the smell of earth and decaying leaves is thick in the air. Newton is picking his way deftly, making turns here and there when the trail is swallowed by beds of dry leaves, as if guided by an unseen map.

 

The moment Percival notices that something is not quite right, it goes from _not quite right_ to _downright threatening_ in half a heartbeat. A sudden surge of magic engulfs the forest. He only has enough time to Apparate in front of Newton and cast a Shield charm before the impact batters them, nearly driving him to his knees.

 

“Wait–”

 

“Stay back,” Percival tells him sternly, taking his wand out.

 

“No, it’s not–”

 

“Stay _back_.”

 

“It’s the _forest_ ,” Newton insists. “There’s no danger. What you’re feeling right now is the forest’s magic.”

 

 _There is no such thing as the forest’s magic_ , Percival almost says out loud, except ten years of being an Auror has more or less convinced him that anything is possible. To assume otherwise is a weakness.

 

“Please.” Newton touches his arm and the warmth of his hand is both startling and reassuring. “It isn’t trying to hurt you.”

 

Percival does not budge. “I distinctly remember being attacked.”

 

“It was not an attack,” Newton tells him, some exasperation lurking in his voice. “And in any case, it’s your fault. You were– _are_ still using your magic. Lower the Shield, please.”

 

Percival stares at the boy in disbelief. “If we can’t even defend ourselves-”

 

“Trust me this once. I know what I’m talking about.”

 

This is the first time Percival hears Newton Scamander use that tone of voice. There will be many other occasions in the future, through which the tone will become as familiar to him as it is endearing—but this first time proves to be something completely unexpected that Percival finds himself following the suggestion without further protest. Slowly, rather reluctantly, he lowers his wand, allowing the Shield Charm to disperse in sprinkles of ice.

 

Almost immediately, the eerie surge of magic returns. Percival tenses, his defence mechanism already reacting to the threat when Newton cries, “No, don’t!”

 

This time, his Shield rattles from the heavy impact. Percival winces when another push threatens to crack the shimmering barrier. His mind works quickly, as if by instinct—that and the force of Newton’s insistence, now that he has the boy pressed against his chest in a protective embrace. Percival dispenses with the Shield once more and when the forest’s magic sweeps over them yet again, he forces himself not to react.

 

Instead of a blow, there is only a strange, heavy caress to his consciousness. The experience is so surreal, so uncomfortable that he has to fight down every instinct to lash back, his magic stiffly reined in.

 

“Merlin,” Newton mutters.

 

Percival feels a helpless twitch of a smile. “Sorry. It was habit.”

 

When he lets go, Newton is visibly biting down his own smile. “I brought Theseus here once,” he recalls rather fondly. “He was bad enough, but you turn out to be far, far worse.”

 

“Thank you,” Percival answers wryly. Their arms are still linked and the contact helps to ground his magic when another wave reaches them. “Mercy Lewis, is it ever going to stop?”

 

“No. Stop fighting it.”

 

“ _How_?”

 

“Just don’t fight it. Let your magic follow its flow.”

 

Percival tries; he really does, eyes closed and all his concentration turned inward, grappling with the restless pulse of his own magic. The effort, however, is far more difficult than Newton implies. When Percival opens his eyes, the boy is grinning.

 

“Here, let me help you.”

 

Newton’s hands rise to clasp his face between them. Percival almost flinches at the unexpected touch, and his own hand comes up to grip Newton’s wrist. It feels too small, too thin in the circle of his fingers, but the voice that speaks to him is quiet and sure.

 

“Relax.”

 

Percival breathes out, eyes drifting shut once more. To distinguish Newton’s magic is easy. His magic is soft and warm, like a gentle sun, and it settles around Percival like a sun-warmed blanket, enough to unwind the tight coil of his own magic. He finds it easier to tune his magic to Newton’s than that of the forest. Its magic is so old, so powerful that it takes him a while to recognise the slow, rhythmic surges as what they are.

 

The heartbeat of the forest.

 

Newton was right. The pulse is neutral, impersonal, as uninterested in him as the sunlight that slips past the dense constellation of leaves. It has no intention to attack them at all—only responding to the aggressive display of Percival’s magic.

 

“Better?”

 

Percival blinks his eyes open just in time to catch Newton watching him. The boy quickly looks away, but his hands remain where they are, warm and comforting on Percival’s cheeks.

 

“Yes, thank you.” Percival smiles, stroking the inside of Newton’s wrist. “Your magic is exquisite.”

 

A faint blush comes to the boy’s cheeks. “Yours is strange, like it’s coming from too deep within.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Never mind,” Newton mutters, pulling away. One of his hands lingers to lace with Percival’s own. “Let’s go on. Not far now.”

 

 _Don’t let him lead you in too deep,_ so Theseus said at breakfast. Percival wonders if his friend knew just how futile his caution would prove. He has no choice but to follow Newton as they delve deeper into the forest—not that Percival has _any_ intention to let go of his hand in the first place.

 

With each step, the magic is steadily becoming heavier. It feels like dipping into thick syrup, the air neither warm nor cool, only _there_ , a heavy, near-tangible presence. It settles under his skin, pressing all around him until Percival almost feels like he cannot breathe. Only years of iron control over his own impulses allows him to continue suppressing his magic despite this growing helplessness.

 

That, and the steady hum of Newton’s magic. The warmth of his fingers grounds him as he maintains a precarious balance, like walking a tightrope.

 

It feels like hours before they finally reaches their destination: a large body of water in the middle of the forest. Too small to be a lake, but too large to be a pond. The surface is still, dark and smooth like black mirror save for a few rocks dotting the surface here and there, breeding secrets in its depth. The opposite shore is shrouded in mist. Percival squints, but this far into the woods, the trees’ canopy is dense. It allows but the most meagre sunlight, dyeing everything in a ghostly half-light. There is no bird, no animal, and other sounds of the forest are muted.

 

Only a deep stillness remains.

 

Newton stops at the bank, near a tangle of wildflowers of indeterminate colour. “What do you think?” His voice echoes strangely in the thick hush that engulfs the place.

 

Even to answer requires an effort. His mind feels sluggish and his tongue lies heavy in his mouth. Percival carefully observes their surroundings. The trees are gnarled and look like they have been standing there for at least a thousand years. Their branches are still. In fact, everything is still, as if a kind of stasis reigns over the place.

 

“What is this place?” he manages to say at last.

 

“No idea.” Newton lets go of his hand and Percival fights against an instinctive response to reach out and maintain the contact. “Found it by accident. It’s peaceful, don’t you think?”

 

“Not the word I’d use to describe it.”

 

Newton shrugs. “Semantics. But the strange thing is I’ve never seen any creature around here, big or small.”

 

“Maybe they know better than to approach,” Percival points out uneasily.

 

“Could be, although I don’t see why. Unless they have magic, of course.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

Newton glances his way. “You can’t use your magic here even if you want to.”

 

“Should I try?”

 

The boy makes an exasperated sound, followed by a muttered ‘Aurors’ under his breath. This, more than anything else, makes Percival’s decision to test the theory. He holds his right hand out and executes a simple _Accio_ spell to summon his wand, except his wand remains where it is, tucked in his pocket. As if his magic has slammed into a wall and simply disappeared without a trace. 

 

It’s a singularly unpleasant sensation, one that he has never experienced before. A second, more focused, attempt yields no different result.

 

Astonishment quickly turns into panic. Percival has _never_ been unable to do magic at will since he was five. Control is something that comes to him easily. This new loss of control, this unmistakable _failure_ , rattles him more than he cares to admit.

 

Newton is watching him with a kind of grim amusement. “I see now why you’re Theseus’s friend.”

 

Percival struggles for calm. “What are we doing here?”

 

The boy shrugs. “Nothing in particular. I just want to show you the place. And maybe also how it feels to not be able to use your magic whenever you want.”

 

In hindsight, the purpose is rather obvious, after yesterday’s incident. Percival clears his throat, suddenly uncomfortable.

 

“I apologise for what happened yesterday.”

 

Newton purses his lips but makes no answer. Instead, he walks to the water’s edge.

 

Then he _jumps_ to a nearby rock, landing lightly but swaying a little. Percival’s stomach lurches. He automatically reaches out with his magic—only to find the same impenetrable wall blocking its course.

 

_Shit._

 

This time, it’s no longer an unpleasant surprise. It’s a cold, heavy knowledge that settles ominously around his shoulders, like a mantle of ice. He cannot use magic. The idea is a disabling thought, paralysing him with fear for a moment. It’s like losing one of his senses, something he has always been able to depend upon, unthinkingly, his entire life. Now, he can only watch, helpless, as Newton tries to regain his balance, arms spread like a bird learning to fly.

 

And the little git even dares to laugh a little, as if he finds this whole situation amusing.

 

“Are you insane?” Percival tries to keep himself calm, but traces of frustration still slips in and lends sharpness to his voice.

 

Newton ignores this accusation. “So now that you’ve apologised, we should just call it even?” he challenges instead.

 

Percival frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

 

“No?”

 

“Come back first and we’ll talk.”

 

“Say ‘please’.”

 

It takes every bit of Percival’s self-control not to roll his eyes. “ _Please_.”

 

Newton’s response is a look of _such_ disappointment that Percival would have smirked under less disturbing circumstances.

 

“Are you always this annoying, Mr Graves?”

 

“Not if you come back here.”

 

“But I can’t.”

 

“Of course you can,” he says impatiently. “Jump. I will catch you.”

 

“I really can’t. If you haven’t noticed, the rock is moving away from the shore.”

 

It takes Percival a moment to make sense of the words, and then to realise that Newton is speaking the truth. The rock _is_ moving away from the shore, so slowly that it does not disturb the surface of the water. But it is moving away and that means the distance between them is steadily growing.

 

Percival makes his decision in a flash.

 

He jumps.

 

“Well,” Newton looks at him, eyes startlingly wide this up close, “bugger.”

 

Percival doesn’t respond, too focused on not falling into the water. Navigating the narrow surface of the rock with two sets of feet on it is tricky. The absence of his magic is even more frightening now, but Newton’s hands are on his shoulders, steadying him. Despite his thin wrists and delicate-looking fingers, his grip is surprisingly strong.

 

“Thanks,” Percival murmurs, calmer once he has found his footing. On second thought, to jump may not be the smartest choice he could make, especially considering their situation now. He cannot help but wonder where this new recklessness has come from, but the answer is most likely standing in front of him, so close Percival can see his own reflection in those blue-green eyes.

 

Newton is still staring at him in astonishment. “You jumped.”

 

“Obviously,” Percival mutters under his breath.

 

“But why?”

 

“I couldn’t leave you alone, could I?”

 

“But _why_?”

 

“Because I couldn’t, annoying as you might be.”

 

The corners of Newton’s lips twitch. “You’re making it very hard for me not to kiss you, Mr Graves.”

 

“In case you haven’t noticed,” Percival points out, mimicking his tone earlier, “we’re in a bit of a predicament here.”

 

“Ah.” Newton glances around a little sheepishly. “You mean the fact that we’re both stuck on this rock.”

 

“Maybe we can still jump back,” Percival suggests doubtfully, considering the distance to the shore.

 

“It’s too far. And you don’t want to fall into the water, believe me.” At Percival’s raised eyebrows, the boy explains with a crooked smile. “I dropped one of my shoes once and it, uh, sort of disintegrated?”

 

“Mercy Lewis.”

 

Newton bites his lips, obviously suppressing a grin. Percival suppresses his own annoyance and focuses on analysing the situation at hand. They are trapped. Going into the water is not an option. Neither is waiting for help, considering where they are.

 

There is only one obvious answer. One thing left to try.

 

“We should try and Apparate back.”

 

Newton sighs. “I’ve told you, you can’t use–”

 

“Hold on tight.”

 

Percival strokes his signet ring as soon as he has secured an arm around Newton’s waist, grinning sharply at the startled expression on the boy’s face. He can feel the familiar sweep of his own magic, unchecked, rising like a tide.

 

What follows a moment later is the most horrible Apparation process Percival has ever experienced in the thirty years of his life. It feels like his entire body is being squeezed through a needle hole, his magic wrestling desperately against the great pressure from the forest. It's both disorienting and nauseating, not to mention _terrifying_. Not even his first try was this awful.

 

They almost don’t make it to the shore.

 

Percival lands on his knees, barely supporting Newton’s weight in his arms. His head is pounding and it feels like all air has been punched out of his lungs. A pressing urge to throw up almost overwhelms him, but he manages to hold it down just in time.

 

Next to him, Newton is lying on his back, gasping for breath. “You’re… absolutely mental.”

 

“Pot, kettle,” Percival mutters, still trying to regain control over his own body. 

 

Newton breaks into a wheezing laugh. The sound echoes loudly in the silence, oddly comforting. It does things to Percival’s chest and would probably have raised some of his alarm if he hadn’t felt so utterly drained.

 

“How did you do that?” Newton asks after a length of silence.

 

“By trying really hard.”

 

“So it’s sheer stubbornness.”

 

“That and I’m a very powerful wizard.”

 

The boy mutters a few unflattering words under his breath. Percival finds himself grinning. It has been some time since he felt this kind of satisfaction. He might have proven Newton wrong, but it’s the thought that he _could_ triumph against such odds that gives him the most comfort. His magic did not fail him.

 

“What would you do if I weren’t here?” he asks as soon as he no longer feels like the world will tilt if he so much tries to move.

 

“If you weren’t here, I wouldn’t jump in the first place,” Newton points out.

 

Percival chuckles. “Fair enough. So you _were_ counting on me to save you.”

 

“Not really.” Newton smiles, a sly little thing that makes him look all too elfin. “The rock always moves in the same direction. It’ll eventually end up at the opposite shore. You can’t see it from here, but it’s actually quite close to the groundkeeper’s house. Barely a five-minute’s walk.”

 

Percival snorts but makes no reply. In retrospect, it does not come as a surprise. Of course the boy has a plan. He should have known by now that Newton Scamander does not do random, purposeless things, despite any attempt to appear otherwise.

 

But he still remembers what happened only minutes ago. The helplessness he felt was real and far too close, real danger or not. Ignoring prudence for once, Percival reaches across the small distance between them and tucks an errant lock of hair away from Newton’s eyes.

 

“Please don’t do that again.”

 

“Then don’t use your wandless magic on me,” Newton shoots back, holding his gaze fiercely. “It’s unfair. And rude.”

 

“Yes, it is,” Percival admits, genuinely contrite. “I really apologise.”

 

“You apologise too easily,” the boy grumbles but the tense set of his shoulders relaxes a little.

 

Percival smiles. “Habit. It has spared me a lot of hassle. Shall we call a truce?”

 

“Not yet.” Newton looks away. “I’m not done with you.”

 

 

–

 

 

They return just in time for lunch.

 

Before which Newton has suddenly, conveniently disappeared. As the result, Percival is forced to fend for himself in the company of Mr and Mrs Scamander for the duration of the meal. It feels interminably long. His hostess very determinedly carries the conversation afloat with a wide range of subjects and a cheerful voice. Her husband, as usual, makes very little effort to help, joining and abandoning any given topic as he pleases.

 

Percival retreats to the library after lunch. Restlessness continues to brew under his skin. What happened earlier this morning has unsettled his magic and the summer heat does not help. Neither does the lack of anything to do. Books have always been able to calm him down. Usually. This time, he tries to read about an hour or so before finally abandoning the venture as futile.

 

Feeling stifled inside the house, Percival soon finds himself meandering around the parkland. The merciless sun beats down on the landscape, lighting everything in bright, stark colours. Almost instinctively, he walks to the direction of the lake. A pair of large chestnut trees stand near the water’s edge. Drawn by the prospect of reprieve from the afternoon heat, he approaches the trees—only to find Newton lounging in the shade.

 

And he is not alone. There is another young man, perhaps a few years older, at his side. A tanned hand quickly withdraws from Newton’s knee at Percival’s appearance, but not quick enough to escape his notice. Between them is a pile of fruits, berries and plums on a spread of brown paper.

 

“Oh, hello.” Newton sits up, looking at him in mild surprise. “Are you looking for me?”

 

“No, I’m just walking about,” Percival says hastily— _too_ hastily, he realises with a wince. “It’s too hot inside.”

 

Newton grins. “I know. Frightful, isn’t it? But the weather will turn later, that’s why it’s so hot.”

 

The other young man bends his head low to whisper in Newton’s ear. Then he offers a differential nod in Percival’s direction before beating a speedy retreat.

 

“Sit down,” Newton tells him. “It’s cooler here.”

 

“Your friend?” Percival nods at the retreating back as he takes his place next to the boy.

 

“Oh, you mean Alfie. Sort of. He works with the horses. My stepmother has five pairs of these really beautiful Abraxans, but they don’t take kindly to house-elves, so Alfie and Ern are responsible for taking care of them.”

 

“I didn’t know your family employed human staffs as well.”

 

A strange smile appears on Newton’s lips. “An estate this size? It can’t be helped. There are a couple of gardeners and groundskeepers too, all working under Old Bill. Mostly they’re here to make sure that there’s no one trespassing. The Unplottability can be a little wonky and we do have Muggle neighbours.”

 

It was a story in one of Theseus’s letters from their school days. Percival still remembers bits of it. A Muggle botanist happened to wander into the ground and found himself face-to-face with a pack of hippogriffs. Luckily, the incident ended with nothing more than a rather complex process of Obliviation and a formal letter from the Ministry.

 

“Does that happen often?”

 

Newton shrugs. “Not really. Most Muggles avoid magic, don’t they? But it only takes one to blow the whistle.”

 

“True enough,” Percival mutters and lies down on his back, thick grass cushioning the ground. A gentle breeze is stirring the humid air. The flower hedge is in full bloom, spreading a sweet, heady fragrance that pampers his nose. He can feel himself slowly winding down as he watches Newton popping up plums and raspberries into his mouth.

 

“You didn’t appear at lunch.”

 

“I’m eating my lunch right now,” Newton replies breezily.

 

“Is that all? No wonder you’re so scrawny.”

 

“I haven’t finished growing up.”

 

Percival smiles at the petulant note in the boy’s voice. “No, you haven’t. Although at this rate, you probably won’t end up as tall as me.”

 

“I’ll end up _taller_ than you. Theseus is taller than you.”

 

Percival only hums, looking across the lake. He feels relaxed and contented, lulled by the breeze and the scent of grass and summer berries and blooming flowers. Before this immense arc of open sky, the forest and its dark water feel like a figment of a bad dream. Here, he contents himself with watching the slow glide of white, fluffy clouds until he drifts off to sleep.

 

The next time he opens his eyes, the wind has changed. The sun still shines but there are darker clouds on the horizon. Newton hasn’t moved from where he has been sitting—except now he has company.

 

Five small birds have gathered in front of him, their round white heads tilting from side to side in jerky little movements. Newton is charming what look like breadcrumbs to float just above their beaks. There is a small, delighted smile on his lips, almost childlike, and when he turns his head slightly to one side, Percival notices another pair of birds making themselves comfortable in his messy hair.

 

He watches this amazing spectacle in silence, wondering at its dreamlike quality. Unfortunately, the moment does not last long. The birds seem to sense his scrutiny. After a series of restless twitches, they decide to take flight, dark wings spread as they soar into the frowning sky.

 

“Of course.” Newton glances at his direction, the smile quirking into a smirk. “You’re awake.”

 

“I didn’t do anything,” he protests.

 

“You don’t have to. They can sense your magic.”

 

“Then how come they’re not afraid of yours?”

 

Newton shrugs. “I learned to adjust mine. Just like this morning in the woods.”

 

Percival groans, slowly sitting up. “Please don’t remind me.”

 

“Your magic claims and conquers. Wild creatures are afraid of that kind the most.”

 

“I take it that I have no future in Magizoology then,” Percival says wryly, popping a raspberry into his mouth. The sourness is refreshing and dispels the last tendrils of sleep from his brain.

 

Something like surprise passes across Newton’s face. “Did Theseus tell you that?”

 

“He mentioned that you wanted to be a Magizoologist.”

 

“And you don’t think that’s strange?”

 

Percival shoots him an amused smile. “It’s definitely strange, since I never even heard the term before. But I think it’s amazing. And after seeing your interactions with creatures, sort of obvious too. You do love them.”

 

This time, the boy meets his eyes, his gaze clear and straight. “Yes.”

 

Percival is tempted to reach across the gap and touch a freckled cheek, but stops himself just in time. It strikes him how lonely Newton must be. With his brother working in London, he is often left alone in the great house, largely ignored by his parents and with only beasts and the occasional staff as his friends. He cannot help but wonder what the boy’s life is like at school, among friends of his own age. 

 

“I’ve always been sensitive to their magic,” Newton continues after a pause, once more looking away. “Magical beasts, I mean. And to be honest I like theirs better than human’s.”

 

“I believe that,” Percival says solemnly. “Is mine really as uncivilised as you described?”

 

The boy’s lips curve into a small smile. “It’s not uncivilised.”

 

“I believe the words you used were _claim and conquer_.”

 

“Because that’s what your magic does. You step into a room and your magic just floods and spreads, haven’t you noticed? Claim and conquer. Like a dragon’s.”

 

“You’ve seen a dragon before?”

 

“Last year in Scotland, a Birthday gift from Theseus.” The memory brings a different kind of softness to Newton’s face. He’s leaning on his arms, watching the opposite shore with a kind of gentle innocence so thoroughly unsuitable for talking about those deadly creatures. “They’re really beautiful, aren’t they? I don’t think I had ever seen the like. If we join the war, I want to work with dragons.”

 

“Dragons are not playthings,” Percival declares wryly.

 

Newton looks a touch surprised. “Of course not. They’re too magnificent to be playthings.”

 

“And dangerous.”

 

“And fascinating.”

 

“And dangerous.”

 

“A bit like you then.” A belligerent note enters Newton’s voice. Percival grins.

 

“I thought you said I was boring. Pedestrian.”

 

“I wouldn’t kiss boring people.”

 

“Sure, if you can call that a kiss.”

 

There is no reply for some time. Percival lies back down, hands piled under his head. He is all too aware of the tense, brooding silence, filled with ominous slivers of possibilities; but the wind feels nice on his face, cool and comforting, and he cannot bring himself to care much about anything else at the moment. The banter between them has more or less become a habit by now. Nothing short of natural.

 

This time, it does not surprise him when Newton relocates himself to straddle his thighs. “You do know that if you keep challenging me, then I will keep responding in kind, don’t you?” he speaks in a low voice, expression serious. “So why would you do that unless you meant to flirt with me?”

 

Percival cannot help a twitch of a smile. “Sorry. Must be reflex.”

 

“If I kiss you, can I call that reflex too?”

 

“No, that’s called inappropriate.”

 

“ _Your_ accusation is inappropriate.”

 

“I apologise,” Percival says with a chuckle. “I’m really not trying to flirt with you.”

 

Newton rests his hands on Percival’s chest. “May I ask why not?”

 

Percival doesn’t answer at once. He takes in the slender waist and bony hips, the lush lips and glittering eyes. Newton’s weight is pleasant enough in his lap, warm and solid. All he needs to do is roll them over and he can have his way with the boy.

 

But he does not.

 

“There are a number of reasons,” he says at last, “among which is our disparity in age.”

 

“I’m seventeen,” Newton tells him in a long-suffering voice.

 

“And how long have you been seventeen?”

 

An impish smile flickers across the boy’s face. “A few weeks, give or take.”

 

Of course. A child of summer, beautiful and whimsical. Percival can easily imagine him in a midsummer night’s dream, dancing with the faeries, his strange beauty lit up by moonlight.

 

“And that is why it’s inappropriate.”

 

Newton hums, a thoughtful frown settling on his brow as he watches the rise and fall of Percival’s chest. Percival, in turn, watches the way his long lashes flutter on freckled cheeks. For a man who always guards his personal space with the utmost care, any proximity that allows this sort of study is rare. And those are really beautiful lashes, framing equally beautiful eyes.

 

“Interesting,” Newton suddenly says. “Do you want to know what I think?”

 

Percival raises an eyebrow, waiting.

 

“I don’t think you think that I’m too young,” the boy continues, taking the tone of a professor when talking about a subject he teaches every day. “I don’t think you mind that I’m Theseus’ brother either.”

 

“Don’t I?”

 

“I think,” his eyes flick up, interestingly, to Percival’s lips, “it pleases you to resist me. You’re the cat that likes playing with its preys, aren’t you, Mr Graves? All the poor mice. Or is it just this one mouse in particular?”

 

“Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” Percival says matter-of-factly.

 

Newton doesn’t rise to the bait; instead, he focuses his attention on running one of his hands down Percival’s chest, directly to the bulge between his thighs.

 

“If you wish, you can continue resisting me while I take care of this,” he suggests, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “It will certainly be an interesting experience.”

 

“Stop,” Percival commands.

 

The hand does, now lying unmoving on that part of Percival’s anatomy. “Give me one good reason why I should,” Newton challenges.

 

“This is your parents’ house.”

 

“Strictly speaking, we’re not _in_ the house right now.”

 

Percival almost rolls his eyes. This boy is incorrigible. “If you don’t stop, I’m going to use my magic on you, with wand or no.”

 

Newton raises his eyes. They look bright, almost feverish. “Will you?” he challenges—and immediately after, his hand starts stroking.

 

The jolt of surprise is unpleasant. It takes Percival half a second too long to react, but he only hesitates a moment before using his magic to pin the boy’s arms behind his back. Magic is a strange thing; distant and separate in one way, but also extremely intimate, almost like a touch. Despite how closely they are pressed together, it’s the way his magic curls around Newton's arms that feels more intrusive.

 

Newton shoots him a half smirk. “Of course. This is the kind of thing you prefer, isn’t it?”

 

“You have no idea what I prefer.”

 

“True, but I can make an educated guess.” With his hands held hostage, Newton begin to make use of his hips, rubbing slowly against Percival’s decidedly not uninterested cock. The weight of him, the heat of him, is both a bliss and a torment.

 

Percival sits up on his elbows, swallowing a groan at a particularly hard drag along his dick. “I swear, kid, you’re playing with fire.”

 

“Speaking of fire,” Newton glances up, sounding indifferent despite the beginning of a flush on his cheeks, “I saw a pair of salamanders once. Beautiful creatures. Their fire wasn’t like anything I’d ever seen before. It almost felt sentient, licking all over my fingers.”

 

“Stop it.” Another flare of his magic stops the movement. Newton gasps. His hips no longer move, a warm, still weight in Percival’s lap.

 

“You are very proficient in this,” he observes clinically. “Not many wizards can use the body-bind curse to specific body parts so precisely. I wonder, do you use this skill in bed too? Well, of course you do.”

 

All the while, he’s slipping down Percival’s legs, manoeuvring around the stiffness of his own hips. Then he uses the momentum to topple forward—and buries his face in Percival’s crotch.

 

“This would be easier if you could just unbutton your pants,” Newton mutters as he starts mouthing at Percival’s cock through his pants, now more than half hard. “Or unbind my arms. Although I suppose that would rather defeat the purpose.”

 

Percival stares at him, half in disbelief, half in wonder. “You just won’t give up until you get what you want, will you?”

 

“I’m a Hufflepuff, Mr Graves. We’re very bad at giving up.”

 

Gritting his teeth, Percival touches the boy’s face, angling it up, away from his arousal. Newton looks surprised at the physical interruption; above all, it seems to be the gentleness that startles him.

 

“No,” Percival tells him, quiet but firm.

 

Newton leans into his palm, expression soft, pleading. “No as in _no, never_ or _no, not now_?”

 

“No as in no.”

 

“I’m very good with my mouth, you know.”

 

“I have absolutely no trouble believing that.”

 

Those sinful lips quirk into a small smile. They’re still way too close to his very aroused dick. Percival can easily imagine them wrapped around his length, allowing him to taste the warm, wet heat he has gone without for quite some time now. The temptation is almost too much. It will only be too easy, with them this close, Newton this willing.

 

“But how do you know for sure unless you try?”

 

“Maybe I don’t like knowing for sure.”

 

“You’re no fun,” the boy huffs but makes no resistance when Percival returns him to a sitting position. As soon as he’s upright, Percival withdraws his magic, feigning ignorance at the small shiver the loss causes Newton.

 

“Is this how you’re getting your fun?” he says instead, keeping a hand curled on slender hips. “Bringing strangers here for the purpose of seducing them?”

 

“Do you consider yourself seduced, Mr Graves?”

 

“Don’t dodge the question.”

 

Newton sighs. “Rarely strangers. Alfie, for example, is very fond of my arse.”

 

At the expression on Percival’s face, Newton breaks into a laugh. He leans in, pressing his hips close, all the warm, firm weight of it. “I’ve been called talented with my arse too,” he purrs.

 

“I see,” Percival replies with the steadiest voice he can manage. Which may not be steady enough, judging from the smirk on Newton’s face.

 

“Aren’t you the slightest bit curious?”

 

“Curiosity is neither here nor there. I simply have no wish to be hexed into oblivion by your most protective brother.”

 

“See? You’re lying again,”

 

The boy closes the gap between them and kisses him again, this time light, teasing caresses that barely touch his lips. Ironically, it’s these coy butterfly touches that snap the last of Percival’s self-control. He flips them around with a growl, delighting at Newton’s muffled gasp of surprise, and proceeds to ravish his mouth until the boy is a breathless, moaning mess.

 

When Percival pulls away, the sight that greets his eyes sends a jolt of dark pleasure through him. Glazed eyes and flushed cheeks and swollen lips. Chest heaving as if desperate for breath, or something else entirely. Far from a virginal innocent, this boy, his legs falling open shamelessly, displaying the firm line of his dick. He’s so very hard—and provocatively so.

 

“Merlin.” Newton’s voice is a low rasp of unconcealed lust. “Is that how you kiss?”

 

Percival lets a smirk grace his face. “Sometimes.”

 

“Ah. So this is a lesson.”

 

“I doubt you need much instruction,” he says wryly, squeezing the boy’s rather obvious erection. The reaction is instantaneous. Newton bucks up with a cry, head thrown back, fingers clenching on Percival’s arms. It’s such a beautiful, arresting sight that Percival inhales sharply, mind reeling with possibilities. If he were to slip his hand inside Newton’s pants, how quickly would the boy come? He still remembers being seventeen, swallowing mouthful after mouthful of pleasure greedily. The sharpness, the intensity of the whole world through youth’s impatience. It’s a thought almost too tempting to resist.

 

“Please.” And the naked need in Newton’s voice is definitely not helping.

 

“What do you want?” Percival relents at last. Somehow, it doesn’t feel like defeat.

 

“Just touch me. Please.”

 

“I’m not sure you deserve that after being such an insufferable tease.”

 

“But–”

 

“Because, you see,” he dips his head to whisper in an attentive ear, “only good boys deserve a reward.”

 

Newton makes a protesting noise, but immediately shuts up when Percival puts a finger on his lips. He swallows, looking mutinous but obviously also desperate enough to obey him. Percival bites down a smile. The pained mix of frustration and desire on Newton’s face is gorgeous. He is content to wait for now, amusing himself with light caresses along the boy’s left thigh.

 

“See, a good boy deserves to choose,” Percival continues after Newton has calmed down a little. “He can choose to have it quick. With hands if he’s particularly impatient. Right hand, left, or both? He can take his pick, and then I’ll wrap my hand around his cock and give him maybe four, five strokes. He’s so close. He won’t need more than that to come.”

 

Another desperate noise escapes Newton’s throat, but he manages to keep the rest of his body still. Percival smiles down at him, a thrill along his spine.

 

“Of course he can also choose to let me enjoy him slowly,” he continues, pitching his voice down low, his hand veering close to the boy’s clothed erection but never quite making contact. “Lick all over his mouth. Map his body with my tongue. Spread his legs and leave marks on his thighs. Make him so hard he’s begging to be fucked. Would you like that?”

 

Newton nods frantically but keeps any spoken word firmly locked. Percival rewards him with a stroke, two, enjoying the soft gasps he earns. This time, he doesn’t remove his hand, pressing the heel of his palm instead. Newton opens his mouth, no sound falling out, hips rutting in sharp, desperate jerks.

 

“But before that, he can make a choice between two or three fingers. He also can decide how deep they go, how fast, and how many strokes. He’s so very close, but he’s a smart boy, so he chooses to wait and enjoy these fingers for now because they feel really nice. Nothing like a proper cock, of course, but he’ll get that later. The question is, does he want to come now? Does he? But he might not have a choice if I have my mouth around his cock–”

 

Percival puts a hand over Newton’s mouth just in time to muffle a loud moan when the boy comes. The thin body arches, hips bucking uncontrollably, limbs twitching. Percival looms over him, protective, his own arousal pulsing at the sight.

 

Sweet whimpers fill his ears as Newton struggles to curl into himself. Percival maintains a loose hold around his frame, kissing his forehead and stroking his back until the trembling subsides. Gradually, his breathing calms, and Percival calms with him. His own lust is a low simmer on the edge of his consciousness, still unsated, but another kind of satisfaction is blooming through him.

 

“I’ll have you, you know,” Newton suddenly says, words pulsing against his chest. His voice is breathy and soft, but the steely undertone is unmistakable. “I’m quite determined.”

 

Percival smiles, kissing his forehead again. “We’ll see.”

 

_**End Chapter 4** _

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More explicitness ahead. This really should've been posted as one with the last part. Oh well.

“How was Newt?”

 

Percival almost chokes on his coffee. He and Theseus are the only ones left in the drawing room, seated in two comfortable armchairs by the open windows. Mr and Mrs Scamander have retired for the night, and so has Newton.

 

“What do you mean?” Percival says after a strained pause. He cannot resist a glance at the grand piano in the corner of the room. Newton was sitting there for the better part of the evening, playing various small, mindless tunes and looking bored out of his mind.

 

“Did he give you a hard time?” Theseus looks genuinely worried. “He can be difficult, just a mite, but once he’s set his mind to something, there’s no telling him ‘no’.”

 

Percival manages a laugh, equal parts relieved and uncomfortable. “I’m not sure if ‘difficult’ is quite the word to describe your brother.”

 

Theseus winces. “That bad? I’m really sorry. If it weren’t for this stupid meeting–”

 

“No, it’s not that. He’s… unexpected.”

 

“So I’ve been told.” Theseus sighs, grinning. It’s a burst of helpless affection so genuine that Percival has to look away. He knows, of course, that Newton is Theseus’s brother, except Percival begins to suspect that no, he does not, not the entire depth and breadth and weight of it. “You _do_ like him, don’t you? He seems to like you.”

 

“Does he?”

 

Theseus shoots him a wry smile. “He wouldn’t spend time with you if he didn’t, believe me.”

 

“He’s strange,” Percival concedes. “I find him rather interesting actually.”

 

“That’s one word to describe Newt.” Theseus laughs, but there is an unmistakable hint of pride in it. “Too bad we’ll be busy for the rest of the week. I wish my parents hadn’t insisted that he attended every dinner. He never likes those things.”

 

“Then why did they?”

 

“The usual balderdash, family honour and all that. As if Evermonde gives a toss whether my brother shows up for dinner or not. _But we’re hosting the Minister of Magic, dear_. What rot.”

 

Percival bites down a grin. “You don’t like Evermonde.”

 

Theseus makes a face. “Pretty sure the feeling is mutual, so I can dislike him as much as I like. Picquery is arriving tomorrow, isn’t she?”

 

“Yes. Before lunch, with Joseph Appleby, our head of DIMC.”

 

“Splendid. I’m going to enjoy watching Evermonde get sliced and diced like the cold, wet fish he is. Picquery will do the job admirably.”

 

“I take it that the meeting today wasn’t a success?”

 

Theseus covers his face with a groan. “Please don’t ask.”

 

Percival puts on his most sympathetic face. “I see.”

 

“The thing is,” Theseus suddenly blurts out, scowling, “he’s a right bastard. Only sat there all smug like, so cool, so condescending. _Thank you for your opinions, Mr Scamander, they’re very interesting_. Interesting, my foot. He was being evasive and he _knew_ he was being evasive. The problem is you can’t really fight evasion.”

 

“What about the others?”

 

Theseus sighs. “Easier to read, I suppose. Some were scandalised. Too stubborn—and too cowardly—to change their self-interested ways. I might have swayed a few others with my arguments, but I don’t know. We’ll have to see how it goes over the weekend.”

 

“And keep things civilised?”

 

Theseus grins sharply. “I’ll be as civilised as he is. No more, no less.”

 

 

–

 

 

Percival is already in bed reading a book when Newton slips into his chamber.

 

“This is such a cliché,” he mutters, warily watching the boy cross the room with light, nimble steps and climb into his bed. Newton is wearing a pair of blue-and-white striped pyjamas, worn and at least one size too small. They only serve to make him look even younger. Softer. More vulnerable.

 

The uncomfortable knot in Percival’s stomach tightens.

 

“I’m glad that it’s your only objection, Mr Graves,” Newton says with an impish smile and proceeds to make himself comfortable under Percival’s blanket.

 

“It isn’t.”

 

“Care to list the rest, maybe? Should be a tolerable bedtime story. Dull, but tolerable.”

 

“You’re not spending the night here.”

 

Newton shrugs, dismissing his protest. “You’re reading again,” he says instead, frowning at the book in Percival’s hand. “Why are you always reading?”

 

“I assume you have other plans in mind?”

 

Newton shifts and places his head on Percival’s lap, peering up at him from under unruly bangs. “I don’t know. I haven’t decided.”

 

“And yet, look at where your head is,” Percival says dryly.

 

Newton smirks lazily. “Isn’t it curious? I seem to be inexplicably drawn to your cock, Mr Graves. I wonder what that means.”

 

“That means it’s a really bad idea.”

 

“I think we’re both fond of bad ideas,” the boy says pensively, “judging from our record so far.”

 

Sighing, Percival puts his book away. His now empty hand falls, quite naturally, into the thick, curly mess of Newton’s hair. His fingers tangle in them and the boy makes a soft, contented noise. Percival resists an urge to pull. He knows that once he has started, there will be no stopping him. He will destroy Newton—Newton, who is the very picture of calm and peace with his eyes closed in Percival’s lap. The idea of ruining him is as terrible as it is delightful; completely immoral, of course, but Percival knows that he will also enjoy it every step of the way.

 

“Aren’t you afraid that we’ll get caught?” he asks to distract himself from that line of thought.

 

“There’s no one else in this part of the house.” The answer comes with a tolerant smile, like the boy is humouring him. “Although the same cannot be said for tomorrow, with more guests arriving for the weekend. So this is your only chance.”

 

“My only chance?”

 

“To make me scream.”

 

“There’s always the Silencing Charm.”

 

He finds himself the recipient of a faint, triumphant smirk. “Yes, there is. I’m glad that you’ve given the matter some thought, Mr Graves.”

 

Percival ignores the insinuation. “The house-elves will know.”

 

“The house-elves will never give me away,” Newton answers breezily. “They’re too fond of me.”

 

“Is there anyone who isn’t fond of you?”

 

“Plenty. In fact, I think I rather annoy people.”

 

“Perhaps because you make it your habit to push into their beds?”

 

Newton is so beautiful when he laughs—all soft and warm, with an openness about him that does away with every layer of seductive charm that he insists on wearing around Percival. It’s a curiously attractive sight, one that makes fondness curl in Percival’s chest.

 

“Only the handsome ones’,” Newton purrs, the tips of his fingers drawing slow circles on one of Percival’s thighs.

 

“What if they say no?”

 

“Are you going to say no?”

 

“I’m considering it.”

 

“That’s not at all the same thing.”

 

Percival watches him, amused. “I’m _strongly_ considering it.”

 

“Then consider as strongly as you like, so long as you don’t say it.”

 

“You’re so sure of yourself.”

 

“Not really,” Newton says, gaze lowered, although it’s more pretence at humbleness than any of the real thing. “I do, however, have faith in my mouth’s ability to win an argument.”

 

“Is that what you call it in England?” Percival replies dryly.

 

Newton’s smile widens a notch. “I imagine you have far more expressive names in America. What is it? Fucking my mouth? Choking me with your cock?”

 

Percival can feel himself responding to the vivid descriptions—and, he notices, so can Newton. The boy quickly presses his advantage, rising to his hands and knees with a smile that promises a thousand things. “Should I wear a nightdress? I have one, you know. White, with plenty of ribbons and pretty laces.”

 

“Your brother will kill me.”

 

“Stop pretending you care.”

 

The thing is, Percival realises, he _does_ care. He genuinely likes Theseus, and their friendship is one of the few constant things in his life that he actually treasures. Immoralities aside, what he is going to do to Theseus’s brother is its own kind of betrayal.

 

And yet he has had plenty of times to say no. To push the boy away. To end this thing between them with a kind of finality that spares no room for repeat. But he has not. He has allowed Newton to continue flirting with him, encouraged him, even. This is how Percival realises that he has already made his decision—and for quite some time now.

 

Newton is still watching him. Perhaps some of his thoughts reveal themselves on his face, because Newton decides to make his move at that moment. Determined fingers lower the front of his pants to expose a hardening cock. Then the boy bends, head dipped, tongue darting out and ready to lick.

 

That is when Percival slips a hand into his hair and _pulls._

 

“If we are doing this,” he says at Newton’s startled face, “then we are going to do it on my terms.”

 

Surprise melts into a slow-spreading smirk. “Finally.”

 

Percival tightens his grip, unsmiling. “Your answer?”

 

“Yes,” the boy breathes out. “By all means, Mr Graves, use me as you like.”

 

Percival curls his lips. He knows it isn’t a smile, and the boy will not mistake it as one. He can feel the tension in curved shoulders, waiting, anticipating. Power pounds through him. Slowly, he pushes the willing head down.

 

“Open.”

 

Newton does, as sweet and obliging as a doe-eyed whore. Percival sighs when he feels the heat of Newton’s mouth around his cock at last. There is a special kind of perversion in finally enjoying what he has denied himself for so long. He rakes his fingers in the thick mane, breathless in the knowledge that he can do anything— _anything_ and Newton will let him.

 

Percival sets a leisurely pace, testing the boy’s limit, including the readiness of his mouth. He is unsurprised to find it more than satisfactory. It’s Newton who challenges his attempts to be careful, taking the length of him deep instead, his mouth a warm, tight fit.

 

Percival curls his fingers around the boy’s locks, a warning. His bed. His terms. The response is immediate. Newton slackens his jaw, cedes control back to Percival’s hand. He is breathing hard, but Percival knows better than to give him reprieve, after his transgression earlier. He lays a hand on the back of Newton’s neck and pushes his head down, down, down, until he’s sheathed to the hilt.

 

Newton holds himself still, throat lax and open. Percival smiles, a thumb stroking Newton’s cheek. Another time, he will make the boy take his cock as hard as he can, the way he likes it, but for now, he is enjoying the warmth of this well-practiced mouth.

 

When Percival finally tugs him away, Newton is panting, cheeks flushed a deep, attractive pink. He looks dazed, not quite wrecked but almost. It only makes Percival want to do more terrible things to him.

 

“Would you like me to fuck you?”

 

“Yes.” Newton’s voice is low and breathy, his fingers clinging to Percival’s pants. “Please.”

 

“Come up. Pants off.”

 

The boy obeys quickly, rising to his knees and shuffling out of his pyjama pants. Percival keeps his instructions short. Something hot twists in him to note that Newton does not try to do more than his command. He does not touch his shirt, waiting, instead, for the next order. Another thread of thought slips in, barbed next to that heat. Percival wonders who has instructed the boy like this. His obedience comes too readily, especially on the heels of such persistent insolence.

 

Another surprise comes when Percival reaches down, past the curve of Newton’s ass, only to find his entrance slick and open.

 

“I see.”

 

Newton keeps his face lowered, but the angles of his face strongly suggest a grin. “I, ah, sort of made a bet with myself?”

 

Percival strokes around the rim, wavering between amused and aroused. “Are you losing or winning this bet?”

 

“It’s rather obvious, isn’t it?” Newton gasps when the tip of a finger teases inside.

 

“How presumptuous,” Percival hums, reaching deeper to harvest more gasps from that delectable mouth. He is not disappointed.

 

“I... deduced?”

 

“Then use your power of deduction to solve this problem. How many fingers do you think you can take before you come?”

 

Newton muffles a particularly loud whine in the juncture of Percival’s neck when a second finger is introduced. It must have burned, so sudden and so rough, but instead of jolting away, he rocks back, drawing the two digits in deeper. It’s all the invitation Percival needs to begin fucking him in earnest.

 

“F-four.” Newton sounds drunk, hips moving gently. It takes Percival a moment to remember what they are talking about. “No. Three.”

 

“Pity. I was looking forward to having my entire hand in you.”

 

Newton groans, shuddering. For a moment, Percival thinks that he’s about to come, but apparently the boy is made of sterner stuffs. That or he has had enough practice to recognise the workings of his own body.

 

“You like this, don’t you?”

 

“Very much.” There are teeth in his shoulder now, softened only by a layer of shirt. “That is, a bit _too_ much. I– I don’t think– _please_.”

 

“You can come from this alone?”

 

“I came only from your _voice_ today– fuck.”

 

“Mm, you did, didn’t you?” Smiling, Percival slows his fingers to a leisurely pace. The frustrated sounds coming from Newton’s throat are music to his ears.

 

“Please,” the boy is begging now. “I want to come.”

 

“Are you asking for my permission?”

 

Newton tenses, swallowing thickly. Percival wonders if the boy knows what it means, what kind of surrender is being asked of him.

 

“Yes.” The answer comes in a whisper. “Please. May I come?”

 

“Not yet.”

 

“I can’t. It’s– oh, I can’t–”

 

“You can,” Percival tells him, with just enough steel to silence any further protest. “And you will.”

 

Newton doesn’t reply, his spine one long line of tension. Percival cradles his head, gentle and comforting even as he continues his onslaught, slow, deep strokes against the boy’s prostate. Newton has a death grip around his neck, face hidden, breath hot and shaky against Percival’s skin. Percival can imagine the expression on his face, brows furrowed, lips bitten white, as clearly as he can feel the nails digging into his back. Small noises keep falling from Newton’s mouth and the curve of his erection on Percival’s thigh is hot and insistent. Everything about him screams wordless pleas for release.

 

Percival feigns deafness to them all. He rather enjoys bringing Newton to the edge and keeping him there. He would have kept him there the entire night, slowing and stopping and starting again, learning how to map this young body. Only the tightness fluttering around his fingers reminds him that he doesn’t have that much patience. His own cock is aching in anticipation.

 

Not tonight, then.

 

He removes his fingers after a few more thrusts and caresses Newton’s cheek gently. “Well done.”

 

Newton releases a shaky breath, cheek pressed against Percival’s shoulder. “Please.” It comes out almost like a sob.

 

“You want to come now?”

 

Newton nods, a small, jerky movement. But then his head tilts and his mouth is reaching for Percival’s fingers. Percival smiles, obliging him, thrusting his fingers into the waiting mouth. The sudden roughness makes Newton moan.

 

That sound would have bent a dragon’s will. Percival finds himself considering the merits of generosity.

 

“Very well,” he decides. “Fuck yourself on my cock. If you do well, I’ll let you come.”

 

Newton’s eyes gleam. Percival matches his smirk. When he finally sinks into Newton’s heat, he realises that he doesn’t give a damn about winning anymore.

 

_**End Chapter 5** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> /runs


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plenty of smut (and drama) in this chapter, so be warned in advance :)  
> 

 

In all likelihood, they will be late for breakfast.

 

In Percival’s defence, his choices are rather limited when he wakes up with Newton’s mouth wrapped around his cock. And then there is the matter of returning the favour, and so he spends about half an hour fingering the boy open until he sobs and begs; and then another fifteen minutes to fuck him, slow, deep grinding that leave them both aching with pleasure.

 

But when Newton finally comes, it’s at Percival’s command—and he does it promptly, beautifully, with neither restraint nor reserve. It’s enough to push Percival into climax himself, deep in the boy’s ass.

 

“We should go down,” he mumbles into Newton’s hair as soon as he can locate his voice.

 

Newton’s only response is a low, displeased noise. Percival cannot resist a small smirk. As much as he likes arguing with the boy, he rather enjoys reducing him to an incoherent mess too, that clever tongue for once rendered out of service.

 

“Everyone will wonder if we don’t go down soon,” Percival points out, caressing the sharp jut where Newton’s hip met his thigh.

 

The boy cracks open an eye, obviously unimpressed by his suggestion. “Or you can let me go down on you again. More fun that way.”

 

“Insatiable,” Percival chides and pushes two of his fingers back in between Newton’s legs, where he is loose and messy from his cock.

 

Newt moans, spreading his legs wider. “I blame you entirely, Mr Graves. You have a very impressive dick.”

 

Percival raises an eyebrow. “Only my dick?” he purrs, pushing his fingers even deeper. Newton’s mouth falls open, small, breathy gasps escaping his throat with every stroke. Percival works him along this edge, alternating between gentle brushes and harder jabs, flirting with oversensitivity. Newton looks like he doesn’t know whether to sob for reprieve or beg for more. All the way, he holds Newton’s gaze, watching pleasure and pain make war on his face, in the way his fingers are gripping the sheets with such claw-like ferocity. It’s a very good look on him, Percival reflects. He continues his assault until the boy bucks up, moaning helplessly, and finally stills.

 

“Alright?” Percival asks, dropping a kiss on the side of Newton’s head. 

 

Newton shoots him a half-hearted glare. “I think you’ve ruined me for other men,” he mutters, voice unsteady in a way that makes Percival bite down a smirk.

 

“A good thing, then. Anyone who cannot at least live up to this standard doesn’t deserve you.”

 

Newton scoffs but there is a twitch of a smile on his lips. “Will you be very busy over the weekend?” he asks, with a touch of timidity that only reveals itself every now and then, in the oddest moments. Percival finds himself looking forward to the pleasure of coaxing that side of him out more often.

 

“I should say fairly. Meetings and all that.”

 

“In the library?”

 

“Perhaps. Why?”

 

“No reason.” Newton glances up, slanting an innocent smile at him. “I was just thinking, maybe I can hide under the desk and, well, entertain you.”

 

Percival stares at him. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

 

“There’s also this small alcove behind the folding screen,” Newton continues, completely unperturbed. “In case you’re bored.”

 

“And you’ll hide there for the entire day?”

 

“Maybe if you promise to make a visit every hour or so.”

 

Percival frowns. He blames his tortuous mind and its suspicious bent, but once a thought has crossed his mind, it will linger. Sitting up, he tilts Newton’s chin with a finger, making the boy look at him. “Are you trying to listen on in the meeting?”

 

Newton blinks. “Why would I do that?”

 

“You’re very insistent. And as proud as I am of my dick, I doubt that’s your real reason.”

 

This time, it’s Newton who frowns. “Your mind can be a very unpleasant place sometimes.”

 

“You only notice that now?”

 

The boy rolls his eyes. “I didn’t mean the obscene, sexual things. I can deal with those.”

 

“Are you sure?” Percival smiles slowly, an idea taking root out of the blue. “Then let’s give this a try. After breakfast, you will come back to this room and into this bed, and then you will pleasure yourself with your fingers. You may think of me, but you cannot come until I’m done with my meetings, after which I may or may not let you come, depending on how good you’ve been.”

 

Newton stares at him, mouth slightly agape. He swallows slowly.

 

“How many fingers?” he finally asks in a faint voice.

 

Percival laughs, delighted by the question. When he places a light kiss on trembling lips, it’s a mockery of all things he wants to do to the boy.

 

“As many as you like.”

 

 

–

 

 

“So how’s New York since I left?”

 

Seraphina Picquery is a formidable-looking woman with a reputation to match, and everyone who has met her will agree wholeheartedly with this opinion. She may be young, only in her early thirties, but very few dare to cross or tease her, and even fewer can get away with it

 

Fortunately for Percival, he belongs to this group of privileged minority.

 

“I regret ever giving you permission to leave three days early,” she says acidly.

 

Percival smiles, a bit smug. “It wasn’t your call. The president personally gave his permission—in his words: to smooth over any waves and prepare the diplomatic waters for what is going to be a very ugly attempt at diplomacy with the most cunning swine that side of the Atlantic.”

 

“Well, did you?” she demands impatiently.

 

“You know the circumstances aren’t that simple.”

 

Scoffing, Picquery turns her attention to their host and hostess. Mrs Scamander is her usual charming self, but not even the graciousness of her welcome is enough to make up for her husband’s barely concealed rudeness. It isn’t difficult to recognise it for what it is: the prejudiced haughtiness prevalent in his class. Mr Scamander is clearly determined to make one thing obvious, that if it is required of his old noble family to interact with the American absconders, then he will certainly do so, but he will not feign even the barest amount of pleasure over it.

 

Percival only smiles wryly when he catches the look on Picquery’s face. Unlike Appleby, who meets their host’s discourtesy with perfectly blank indifference, she can never quite conceal her displeasure. And that usually means someone will pay.

 

The weekend will be interesting to say the least.

 

“Really?” she hisses in his ear as soon as the three of them can make their escape to privacy—in this case, her bed chamber. Hardly a place for a meeting, but they have little choice. Picquery, in particular, is glad to extricate herself from Theseus’s all too warm welcome and his _lovely Seraphina_ ’s. “That’s what you called smoothing the diplomatic waters? What did you even do in the last three days?”

 

Answering that question truthfully is pretty much unthinkable. “In my defence,” Percival says instead, using his most long-suffering voice, “Theseus’s father is a lost cause.”

 

Picquery mutters something rude under her breath. “This weekend is going to be intolerable.”

 

“The President does know that this is pretty much a fool’s errand, doesn’t he?” Appleby says in his quiet, carefully modulated voice. He’s a tall, thin man with thick, round spectacles and a decidedly serious air that does not quite conform to the general idea of what a person in charge of international relations should be. His appointment only two months ago is still a topic of discussion. Not only that he is largely considered too young, his modest background is also a cause of much concern and speculation, especially for a post where connections are paramount.

 

Those concerns may be legit, but Percival cannot say that he is unhappy by the president’s—or, more likely, Picquery’s—choice. He likes Appleby’s steadiness, his quiet sense of duty, and above all, his ability to keep up with Picquery.

 

“Why do you say that?” she asks him.

 

Appleby shrugs. “Minister Evermonde likes to think that he is mysterious, but the company he keeps speaks for itself. He has no love for No-Majs, that much is obvious. And the way Minister Olivier from France pushed him into a corner on this issue would hardly warm him up to the cause.”

 

Percival watches him closely. “You knew what happened in their meeting.” It’s a statement, not a question.

 

“Of course.” Appleby’s answer is a matter-of-fact. “Olivier made no secret of his grievances. Even in the formal letter to President Thesiger, he used very strong words. It’s unfortunate that he has returned to Paris and we have to make do with Evermonde.”

 

“Even more unfortunate because unlike our congress, Evermonde is the sole deciding voice in the British MoM,” Picquery concludes with a frown. “But I take it that not all British wizards share his views?”

 

“Hardly,” Percival replies dryly. “Your ardent admirer, for example, is very vocal in declaring his opposition. And Theseus is far from alone. Many—the younger generation in particular—consider that to help is the right thing to do, and I can’t say I disagree.”

 

That earns him a raised eyebrow. “I didn’t know that you’re an idealist, Graves.”

 

“Maybe because I’m not. But Evermonde won’t be the British Minister of Magic forever, is what I’m saying.”

 

A slow smile spreads across Picquery’s face. “I’m glad that we’re in the same page on this. What do you think, Appleby?”

 

The answer is delivered in the same dry, steady tone. “I think the European wizarding community will need as much help as they can get. War is a bed for chaos. There will always be unscrupulous people who think that they can take advantage of the moment, and we all know what that means.”

 

“I guess we’re all agreed. Now if only– what is _that_.”

 

Percival turns, following Picquery’s gaze. In front of the large window, a black, sinister-looking owl is hovering just outside the glass.

 

“It’s carrying a letter.” Appleby walks over to open the window. The owl swoops in, heading straight for Percival, and drops a tiny roll of parchment on his palm before soaring out again. Two words are written inside in a shaky scrawl.

 

_so full_

 

Percival stares at the two words, a warm pit in the base of his stomach. It’s almost noon. If Newton has really followed his instructions, then he will have been at it for a while now.

 

It’s surprising to discover how much the thought pleases him.

 

“What is it?” Picquery’s brisk voice recalls him to the present. Before Percival can come up with an answer, however, a second bird, this time tiny and yellow-plumed, has materialised.

 

_please_

 

“Something personal,” Percival replies after clearing his throat. Picquery shoots him a look full of disbelief. It does not help that the tiny bird is soon followed by a succession of sparrows, pigeons, and magpies, even a large, purple-coloured bird of unknown origin at one point.

 

_i’ve run out of fingers_

_i want more_

_can i have more_

_i’ll suck you off if you lend me your fingers_

_i’m close_

_can i come_

_please mr graves_

“You have a really interesting method for correspondence,” Picquery observes, now more amused than anything else. Percival’s only response is a wry smile before penning a reply and sending it with the last bird, small and red-breasted.

 

_Behave, or I won’t let you come._

 

The letters cease. Neither Picquery nor Appleby make any further mention of the letters as they continue comparing notes and discussing relevant points—something which would go far more smoothly if Percival did not have the image of Newton spread out in his bed, five fingers deep inside his clenching hole, constantly lurking in his head.

 

He slips into his room just before lunch. Newton is on his knees, but instead of the expected fingers, there is something else moving in and out of him.

 

“I thought I told you to finger yourself.” Percival says, running his fingers across the rounded base of the phallus. It’s smooth and made of wood, light enough to yield to a little push of magic. Newton has obviously had much practice with it.

 

“You did,” Newton gasps. “And I did. But then–”

 

“But then you got greedy.” Percival keeps his tone matter-of-fact, almost detached. He gives the toy an experimental twist. The boy moans, a loud, generous sound, and Percival frowns at the theatrics of it. “You wanted something bigger.”

 

“Please.” Newton cants his head, turning a pair lovely, tears-bright eyes to him. “Please, Mr Graves.”

 

“I don’t feel very generous at the moment.”

 

“But–”

 

He inserts a finger next to the toy. Newton makes a keening sound and pushes against the intrusion, spreading his legs wider.

 

“Ah, please…”

 

“No.” Percival slips his finger free, along with the phallus. He can tell real pleasure from crude exaggeration. “I don’t need someone who think they can pretend like a cheap street whore. Bring yourself off if you want, but remove yourself from my room afterwards. We’re done.”

 

 

–

 

 

The Minister arrives just before dinner.

 

By then, Percival has been able to shake off most of his dark mood. Which is just as well. The language of social graces requires effort, no matter how fluent he has become after an adolescence of constant practice. A number of other guests have arrived, mostly in one social capacity or other. Neighbours. Fellow Sacred Families. Society notables. None is obviously political, but then again, they live in a world where to be obvious is to fail.

 

Picquery looks splendid in black-and-gold dress robes—but she always looks splendid. A house party is more or less a place to show how splendidly one can dress oneself, and Picquery is extremely well-versed in the art. She commands attention with the ease of a queen, and next to her, the dour, sallow-faced Evermonde appears even more unprepossessing despite the expensive cut of his robes.

 

After President Thesiger’s ascension to power—and consequently hers, as his chief of staff—everyone knows that it is only a matter of time before Seraphina Picquery makes her own bid for presidency. In the last few years, she has been quietly but steadily consolidating her power base. Appleby is one example. Percival, too, is perfectly aware that he is being courted for support. Differences in backgrounds notwithstanding, they are pretty much birds of a feather. His boss, the current head of DMLE, is competent enough as far as the job goes, but he is much too soft for Picquery’s taste. It has not taken her long to fix her eyes on Percival instead.

 

Unlike him, who has all the advantages of being born into the Graves family, Seraphina Picquery began as a nobody. Everything she has achieved so far is the result of hard work and learning. She learned to wear authority like a second skin, to wield grace like a weapon, to build a network made impervious by countless twists and traps—everything Percival has been taught since childhood. To say that he has much respect for her is an understatement.

 

Theseus clearly agrees with him. He is relentless in his effort to engage her in conversation throughout dinner, undeterred by her frosty responses. Percival briefly considers the possibility of a union between his two friends; he winces.

 

Dinner is a stilted affair but still bearable. Conversations trickle slowly, circling around the most innocuous subjects: new fashions, a society wedding, a secret monopoly over the patent of a new type of broom ( _“by a certain country best left unnamed, no doubt to gain unfair advantage in the upcoming World Cup”_ ).

 

Newton is present, three seats away, flanked between two old ladies who spend the better part of dinner trying to coax him to eat more. He is polite but reserved, keeping his eyes on his plate most of the time. It only serves to make him look soft and vulnerable, which stirs some of Percival’s suspicion. He cannot tell if Newton is doing it on purpose or not.

 

Frowning, Percival turns away to address his hostess instead, determined to ignore the boy. He succeeds—until something else catches his attention.

 

Percival notices the glance entirely by chance. From his seat, he has a clear view of Minister Evermonde and the quick, furtive look he shoots in a certain direction. A few minutes later, there is another glance. Then another. And another.

 

He maintains his silent observation, uneasiness rising with every repeated glance. Newton seems unaware of the attention, and Evermonde—Evermonde is careful enough, but the look on his face says everything Percival needs to know.

 

But surely, _surely_ he will not dare. (Percival tries not to think about his own deeds or the sour taste of hypocrisy in his mouth.)

 

It isn’t until they have moved to the drawing room after dinner and he sees the two of them standing in a corner, by a large window, that the uneasiness solidifies into something more defined. On the surface, it does not seem like anything out of the ordinary, simply the Minister of Magic being kind to the son of the house. Except Evermonde is far from a kind man. He is not only cunning and powerful, but also notorious for his wandering eyes and hands, and Newton has a shy, tremulous smile on his face that can easily invite another kind of interpretation.  

 

Something hot and heavy coils in Percival’s belly. He approaches the boy as soon as Mrs Scamander has drawn the Minister’s attention to the card table.

 

“Did you come?”

 

Newton tenses, eyes widening. Percival resists an urge to run his fingers down the stiff line of the boy’s back to the swell of his ass.

 

“No.” His voice is faint, barely more than a whisper.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

“Yes.” Newton glances up, at once timid and challenging. “You didn’t give me permission.”

 

A heady surge of power courses through him at those words. Percival swallows, taking a moment for a few deep breaths to steady himself. Laughter erupts from the card table, loud enough to make Newton jump. Percival eases a hand on his hip, at an unseen angle, and appreciates the way Newton seems to melt into his touch.

 

“Would you like to?” he finally asks.

 

Newton keeps his eyes on the floor but his answer is clear enough.

 

“Yes.”

 

 

–

 

 

There are a number of things in which Percival prides himself. One of them is the fact that he never lies.

 

That is, to himself.

 

It is not difficult to admit that he is jealous—or, at least, as jealous as he could be over someone he has known for less than a week, with pride obviously playing no small part in it too. That, added to the fact that Newton has constantly challenged his patience for days, is enough to make him keep the boy on his hands and knees while he fucks him hard. Without allowing him release.

 

“Ple–”

 

“Not a word,” Percival warns, a hand over Newton’s mouth. “That was your promise.”

 

Newton makes a noise that would sound angry if it weren’t so desperate. Percival answers by finding the base of Newton’s cock, twisting the ring that circles it tight. The boy gasps, muscles going taut, but makes no further attempt to beg.

 

Percival usually prefers his own magic for this kind of thing—tricky, requiring much patience and effort, yet immensely more satisfying. Still, the ring serves its purpose well enough. Once an innocent piece of ornament in the room, it now settles snugly around Newton’s erection, keeping his release just out of reach as Percival continues to fuck him.

 

“What about now?” Percival asks, taunts, curling his fingers around the hard cock and drawing a strangled whine from Newton’s throat. He can feel how close the boy is, how desperate. He laughs, low in his throat, and then begins to stroke. Firm enough to tease. Slow enough to torment.

 

Newton is now sobbing softly, face pressed into the pillow. Percival listens, basking in the stream of sounds, but does not let up. If anything, he rubs faster and fucks in harder, until Newton lets out a particularly loud wail, tightening so suddenly around him. Percival thrusts once, twice more, and then comes.

 

Newton is still struggling weakly when Percival has calmed down enough to pull out and turn the boy onto his back. He has wide, desperate eyes, wet with tears, quivering lips bitten into obscene red. The sight unleashes something terrible in Percival want to fuck him more and it takes everything in his power not to wreck Newton even more —with toys, cock, fingers, magic, anything.

 

The boy is not his. Not in that sense

 

“Look at me,” he says gently. Newton does, looking at him wildly; he cannot not obey at that point. “How do you want it?”

 

“What?” His voice is rough and patched with wetness.

 

“You’ve done so well, now you deserve a present.” Percival keeps his voice gentle and coaxing. “How do you want to come? You can tell me.”

 

“Don’t care, I just–” Newton stops, perhaps noticing something in Percival’s face. He swallows, clearly resisting a fresh wave of tears, and then tries again. “With… just with your hand. And your co– _fingers_. In me. I want to feel you.”

 

Percival stifles a growl as his still-sensitive dick twitches with interest. There is something about Newton that drives him mad with want. The boy is shaking, his fingers tearing at the sheets. His lips are mouthing pleas, but he keeps himself silent, waiting.

 

He would’ve been perfect, Percival thinks as he vanishes the ring and Newton comes with a soft, strangled sound after barely three strokes, three fingers deep in his ass. Lewis, he would’ve been perfect.

 

Percival cleans them both up quickly afterwards. His ward still holds. The house is quiet, but not asleep. Or maybe it’s just him. He sighs and presses a kiss on one freckled cheek.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

It takes some time for Newton to answer. “Yes.”

 

The boy is leaning into him a little. Percival continues with the gentle kisses, all too aware of the fierce wave of affection and protectiveness rising in him. It is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. He had other partners before, in this sort of capacity, but neither of them were this young.

 

“Was it too much?”

 

“Mmh.” Newton makes a noncommittal sound. Even processing Percival’s question is clearly an effort. “Intense.”

 

“Did I hurt you?”

 

“No.” More definite this time.

 

“Are you sure?”

 

Newton glances up at him, timid lashes fluttering. The expression is new and something that rouses rather mixed reactions in Percival. “Yes.”

 

Percival nods. “I’ll give you an examination later, just in case.”

 

“Doubt it’ll stay an examination,” Newton murmurs, and Percival finds himself laughing, half in surprise, half in relief.

 

“I do hope I have better self-restraint than that.”

 

“Because you’ve done such a good job resisting me so far?”

 

The jabs are back. Percival grins, his ease returning. “This is different.”

 

“How so?”

 

“There are limits. I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Newton frowns, falling into a pensive silence. His eyes drift shut as Percival stars combing his hair, but when he glances up again, they are alert.

 

“You’re strange. I thought you liked doing it to me.”

 

“Doing what?”

 

“The control thing. Having me under your control.”

 

“I do like it,” Percival replies, a thread of uneasiness slinking in. “But that doesn’t mean I want to hurt you.”

 

“You were angry earlier.”

 

“I wasn’t,” Percival says thickly, navigating around the guilt that has bloomed inside his chest. “No, Newton, it was– I wasn’t angry. I was being stupid. I thought you were faking it.”

 

“It?”

 

“Your pleasure. What I told you to do this morning.”

 

“Oh.” Newton looks taken aback, perhaps a shade guilty. “Well, I suppose you’re not entirely wrong.”

 

“Still. I shouldn’t have lost my patience over something like that. I’m really sorry.”

 

The boy shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

 

“It should. And I mean what I said. I don’t want to hurt you.” _Not without your permission_ , he does not say.

 

The frown returns to Newton’s brow. “This is why I said you’re strange.”

 

Percival stares, a terrible idea forming in his head. “Newton–”

 

“Newt,” the boy interrupts him. “You’ve come in my arse three times now. The least you can do is call me Newt.”

 

“Newt,” he concedes, stomach clenching unpleasantly. “Look. All this time, have I been forcing you to do something you don’t want?”

 

A look of surprise comes to Newton’s face. “Of course not. I was the one who started this, remember?”

 

“What about the times when I held you down on my cock, or didn’t allow you to come?”

 

Another shrug. “I didn’t dislike them.”

 

“You didn’t dislike them,” Percival deadpans, horror thickening in his throat. “You didn’t dislike them. Fuck. _Fuck._ ”

 

Newt stares at him. “Say that again.”

 

“What, ‘fuck’?”

 

Slowly the boy grins, face alight with something gleeful. “You swore.”

 

This time, it is Percival who stares blankly. “Of course I swear. Who doesn’t?”

 

“You never did that before,” Newt says triumphantly. “In front of me.”

 

“You like it when I swear?”

 

“I love it when you shed all that calm, collected suit of armour and just lose control.”

 

“You haven’t seen me lose control yet. How do you know you’ll love it?”

 

“That’s true,” Newt admits, suddenly thoughtful. “When you do, I think I’ll be sore for days.”

 

“And you’re _fine_ with it?”

 

The look Newt gives him is almost offended. “Of course I’m fine with it. Don’t treat me like a child. Besides, it won’t be my first time.”

 

“What does that mean?” Percival tries his best to keep his voice steady. “Did somebody hurt you?”

 

The boy rolls his eyes. “Not in that way,” he says, a bit impatient. “I knew what they were doing from the start. And I let them. You said you liked having me under your control. Well, you’re not the first person I know who enjoys that sort of thing. Or the first person who practiced it on me.” He pauses, glancing at Percival’s face. “I can see the appeal, I suppose, to have absolute control over someone you fuck.”

 

“No, it’s not absolute control and it sure as hell isn’t only that.” Percival takes a deep breath, struggling for calm. “It’s control _and_ willing submission. One has to go with the other. Otherwise, it’s rape.”

 

Newt flinches. By now, the uneasiness inside Percival’s chest has frozen into fear, stitched tight by the frightening thought that whoever introduced Newt to sex did it without the boy’s consent. He knows only too well what can happen in a boarding school like Hogwarts or Ilvermorny.

 

“I wasn’t raped,” Newt suddenly says, as if he can read Percival’s mind. There is a new sharpness in his voice, the kind that turns each word into a knife. Percival has been an Auror long enough to recognise the real source of this aggressiveness.

 

Panic.

 

“I’m not saying you were.”

 

The boy scoffs. “Your face said enough. Do you think I was so stupid that I’d let anyone rape me?”

 

“It has nothing to do with stupidity,” Percival says roughly. “Did you give your permission? Did they _ask_ first?”

 

“I’ve told you, I let them!”

 

“The way you let me just now?”

 

Newt opens his mouth, but no word comes out. Percival waits, fighting against a rising nausea.

 

“What difference does it make?” Newt finally says. His voice shakes but there is a stubborn, almost arrogant tilt to his chin, and it is this that confirms the worst of Percival’s nightmares.

 

“Oh sweet Lewis, Newt–”

 

Growling, the boy makes his escape, the sound of his bare feet loud in the night’s hush. Percival stares at the closed door for a long time.

 

_**End Chapter 6** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid updates are going to be slow for a while because I just started a new job. Hopefully it'll pick up a bit once I've got the hang of things.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the long delay, but Percival and Newt just didn't want to make up and everything got horribly long /cries

 

On Saturday morning, Percival rises early for the hunt.

 

Theseus meets him at the landing, and together, they join the rest of the yawning, bleary-eyed crowd. Despite the early hour, almost everyone who was invited to dinner last night makes a point to attend.

 

Picquery and Appleby are already mingling with the other guests. The general conversations revolve mainly around past glories and the long, venerable history of hunting among the British Sacred Families. Picquery, Percival cannot help but notice, is steadily gaining that look in her eyes that presages an imminent disaster.

 

“Lucky Newt,” Theseus grumbles, snatching a cup of hot, strong tea from a floating tray as he covers another big yawn. “I’d give anything to be back in my bed right now.”

 

“I can’t imagine your brother liking this sort of thing.” Percival keeps both his expression and tone neutral, but the feat evidently requires more effort than usual. He blames it on last night’s lack of sleep, after his rather disastrous conversation with Newt. Which is strange. Percival is no stranger to lack of sleep, usually the result of long work hours. Uneasy conscience, however, is something new. Not even the most horrific aspect of his job ever affects him to this degree.

 

“He positively hates it,” Theseus declares with a grin. “The last time I joined a hunt, he was twelve, and he refused to talk to me for two whole weeks.”

 

The hunting party sets out a moment later, led by their host and hostess. A dozen or so staffs have gone ahead for the preparation. The sun has risen for some time, but the weather is still cool enough to be comfortable. Not that it will last long, if Percival’s last few days here were any indication.

 

They stop some distance away from the tree line and are divided into smaller groups. Percival smiles wryly when he finds himself grouped with Picquery and Appleby. Theseus, to nobody’s surprise, decides to join them.

 

“Good at this, aren’t you, old chap?” Theseus nudges his side. He is grinning widely, but Percival recognises the coiled tension in his posture, like a lion ready to hunt.

 

“Not bad. But nothing compared to Picquery, from what I've heard.”

 

“Of course,” Theseus sighs dramatically. “Is there anything she _can’t_ do?”

 

“Responding favourably to your flirtations,” Percival replies in his most solemn voice.

 

“Now that’s just low–”

 

The sound of a hunting horn signals the beginning of the hunt. Everyone goes quiet, wands at the ready, eyes darting around. Circles of light shine under their feet, separating one group from another. Silent anticipation falls over the place.

 

A second horn, loud in the silence. Percival takes a deep breath.

 

Suddenly, the forest explodes with sounds, thundering and shrill, driving all kinds of creatures out of the trees. Soon, the air is filled with sharp incantations and jets of light of many colours.

 

The rules are simple enough. The group with the most hits in total wins. They must not move from their own circle until the set ends, but any creature within sight is a fair game. No attacking each other is allowed. Stunning spells are recommended but not mandatory.

 

Skill plays a great part in hunting, as does speed. Appleby, unfortunately, is not really good in either, his reactions not quick enough for this kind of exercise. Theseus, on the other hand, can mostly match Percival’s pace. Being an Auror, he has a precise aim and an excellent eye-hand/foot coordination. Percival’s only advantage is the fact that he has been trained in the sport since he was ten.

 

However, the star of the day is, without a doubt, Picquery.

 

Percival does not often see her display her skills in magic. Due to her highly political job, sometimes it is easy to forget that Seraphina Picquery was the best Ilvermorny graduate in her year, with notable proficiency in charms and the so-called dark branch of magic. He hides a smile as she executes spell after spell—twisting and turning, branching in mid-air, exploding like fireworks, hitting several targets at once—enjoying the open-mouthed stares from the other groups. Clearly, her only intention is to show off. Most of the times, the fancy spells are too weak to stun but the smallest creatures, but they are certainly distractions enough, for humans and creatures alike, while Percival and Theseus take care of the rest.

 

The first round ends with an overwhelming win for their group.

 

Percival shakes his head but cannot help a grin as they walk to the next hunting spot. “We should be careful. I doubt Evermonde likes to lose.”

 

Picquery’s smirk is sharply predatory. “Good,” she declares. At the same moment Theseus says loudly, “They can only blame themselves for making the only British Auror around join you folks.”

 

Percival does not miss Evermonde’s glance in their direction. The increasingly pinched look on the Minister’s face clearly says what he thinks about Theseus’s words just now. Appleby, who obviously shares Percival’s concern, is frowning.

 

“Is it wise to annoy him like this? Changing his mind about the war might be impossible, but if the relationship between MACUSA and the British MoM deteriorates even further, it’ll be dangerous.”

 

Picquery scoffs. “Deteriorates? As if the treatment we’ve got so far isn’t obvious enough to tell you what they think of our presence here.”

 

Theseus grimaces, looking massively uncomfortable. “I really apologise for that. In my family’s behalf as well. But you’re right.” He nods at Appleby. “Evermonde and his henchmen seem pretty much set on doing nothing about the war. But it doesn’t mean we all agree with them. In fact, there are plenty of us who think that it’s our duty to help our fellow wizards. If not for the sake of doing what’s right, then at least for the safety of the wizarding community in general.”

 

Picquery frowns. “But what can you and your friends do? I assume most if not all key people in the Ministry are on Evermonde’s side.”

 

“Not Henry Potter,” Theseus says firmly. “He was the Head Auror until a year ago. Evermonde replaced him with a much more tameable choice—my current boss, not a bad man by any standard, but he definitely lacks the kind of backbone Potter has—and gave him a so-called promotion. The Superintendent of DMLE. Not that the position means anything, just honorary with no real clout at all. Even so, he still has some influence in the Ministry and society in general. The family is one of the most powerful in the country.”

 

“I take it that he isn’t invited down here.”

 

Theseus smiles, humourless. “Since Evermonde went into great lengths to limit Potter’s influence in the Ministry, I think the answer is obvious. Not to mention, my father pretty much hates him, so.”

 

Their conversation ends then. They have arrived at the next spot, a small rise facing a denser part of the forest. The other groups have ranged themselves some distance away from the tree line.

 

Picquery is more subdued this round, her mind clearly elsewhere. This change is immediately noted and exploited by other groups, who are increasing their viciousness. Instead of Stunning Spells, some have decided to switch to killing. Bloody, shattered fragments soon litter the field. Percival can barely conceal his distaste.

 

The rest of the hunt proceeds in similar veins. The size of the estate proves its worth as they move from one spot to another. Riverbanks. Forest clearings. Sloping hillsides. Nowadays, only the most affluent families can still afford to hold a hunt of this scale.

 

Soon, however, the day becomes too hot even for the most inveterate hunter. After the sixth round—at which point even Theseus’s competitive spirit has dwindled to nothing—they end the hunt and have an early lunch by the lodge, under a large chestnut tree.

 

The luncheon is an unpleasant affair. Temper rises with the heat. The desultory attempt at conversation inevitably turns to the war. Dominus Crouch, a Special Advisor to the Minister, is particularly loud in airing his views about the stupidity of Muggles for allowing the conflict to happen in the first place. Theseus scowls but otherwise remains silent (even though Percival does have to step on his foot a few times). Not getting the reaction he wants, Crouch switches his attack to the Americans and their “tendencies to show off and poke their noses into affairs that don’t concern them”. He only desists when their hostess finally makes some rather scathing remarks about civility and good breeding.

 

Picquery, to her credit, does an admirable job keeping her temper in check. It is only afterwards, when they are walking back to the house, that she slips her hand around Theseus’s arm and demands, “Talk to me about this Henry Potter.”

 

He winces a little at the vicious pressure of her fingers. “What do you want to know?”

 

“Anything.” Her eyes flash dangerously. “For example, is he less an insufferable fuckwit compared to Mr Shithead Crouch?”

 

Theseus chokes. Percival grins.

 

“Really, Seraphina.”

 

“I’m not sure how politically correct that is,” Appleby mutters, but the reproach is half-hearted. After his disdainful silence throughout lunch earlier, it is rather obvious that he has no intention to restrain Picquery.

 

“Political correctness can kiss my ass,” she says sweetly. “So how is it, Mr Scamander? Do you think your champion will be more amenable to a sensible discussion?”

 

“ _Anyone_ is more amenable to a discussion than Evermonde and his cronies right now,” Theseus says wryly.

 

“Splendid. Now this is what you’re going to do.” She shifts her hand to grip his elbow. “As soon as we arrive at the house, you will arrange a meeting. Us and Potter. Somewhere inconspicuous in London. We have time tomorrow, don’t we?” She glances at Appleby, who nods.

 

“Our Portkey is at half past two. There is ample time if we leave here early—say, after breakfast.”

 

“Then that’s what we’re going to do.”

 

But Theseus is shaking his head. “Right now Potter is in Nice, with his family. Supposedly for a holiday, but I’m betting my last cent that he’s planning to meet Olivier at some point. If he hasn’t already. Never a chap to let grass grow under his feet.”

 

Picquery frowns. “I see.”

 

“Don’t worry. He’ll be back next week and I’ll let him know then. You may expect a letter from him soon.”

 

“Not me,” Picquery says quickly. “I’m far too visible. We don’t want an international incident in case Evermonde gets wind of it. So is Appleby for that matter.” She pauses, hard, glinting eyes settling on Percival. “I think you’ll have to step up for this, Graves.”

 

Percival shrugs. It will not be the first time. “If you insist.”

 

Theseus looks at them both, and then snorts. “So this is why you’re still _just_ an Auror. I should’ve guessed.”

 

“A lower rank has its uses,” Percival says mildly.

 

“You should still be careful,” Picquery warns him. “You’re not exactly without enemies in MACUSA. They’ll be glad to see you ruined.”

 

Which is rather an understatement, but Percival only smiles.

 

“Don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

 

 

-

 

 

Newt is sitting at the window looking out on the park when Percival comes in.

 

Percival pauses at the door, caught off guard by a sudden surge of relief that ambushes him at the sight. He had vague plans that he would find the boy and apologise before his departure tomorrow, but never, _never_ did he expect Newt to come and provide him with the chance himself.

 

“I hate hunting,” the boy declares before Percival can decide on something safe enough to say. “It’s so barbaric.”

 

He does not turn around, keeping his eyes on the sun-soaked ground below. Percival considers the stiff back, the carefully turned face, the too-low voice and the painful neutrality in it. He identifies each as the rough, clumsy splinters of a peace offering.

 

“It’s necessary,” he says at last, closing the door behind him. The way tension immediately leaves Newt’s shoulders is almost heart-breaking.

 

“What, killing animals for sport?”

 

“No, the tradition. ”

 

“It’s stupid.”

 

“Many traditions are.” Percival times his approach, slow and measured. A skittish animal will flee at anything unexpected; he can read the same coiled impulse in Newt. “You didn’t join us for lunch.”

 

“I had a bite earlier.”

 

“Literally?”

 

The boy finally lets Percival see his face, if not quite meeting his eyes. Every line, every curve looks guarded, unsure, but there is a faint stirring of what might be a smile. “Maybe two. I wasn’t really hungry.”

 

Percival only stops when he is close enough to touch, should he allow himself; but he keeps his hands at his sides, all too aware of the delicate balance suspended on this moment. Newt is still staring at the sill, fingers restless, clenching around each other.

 

“I’m sorry about last night.”

 

Newt tenses. It does not take any special skill for observation to notice that his body has gone rigid, as if bracing for the next painful strike of words. Percival has to force himself not to pull the boy close, until he is once more limp and pliant, relaxed and trusting in his arms.

 

“Can I still stay here?” His question comes out of nowhere, barely touching the silence in its frailty. Percival’s heart clenches, at both the tone and the words.

 

“Of course,” he replies, carefully keeping his voice light. “I’ll be glad if you do.”

 

Newt’s eyes flick up, a quick, vulnerable glance. “You really don’t mind?”

 

“No, I don’t,” Percival tells him truthfully. This time, he does not resist when his hand moves to rest on the boy’s messy hair.

 

The reaction is instantaneous. Newt melts into his touch, curling slightly as he leans against Percival’s chest, warm cheek on a stuttering heart. His sigh is soft, the gentle sweep of blessed relief, quietly echoing in the silence between them. Percival’s fingers tangle with the curls, stroking slowly. His heart aches with every ticking silence. There is a certain sense of doomed inevitability to the moment that he has failed to see—and now it is too late. The utter foolishness of starting something like this when he has to leave tomorrow stares at him in the face.

 

But Percival cannot do otherwise. Newt feels as small and frail as a wounded bird, flightless and broken. To turn him away is unthinkable.

 

He tries not to think about what will happen after his departure.

 

The silence lengthens. Newt has closed his eyes, looking almost at peace. It’s a flattering thought, but Percival does not trust it. He stares at the park below, stark and bright in the afternoon sun, his thumb still moving quietly along the curves of the boy’s head. The house is at rest. There are only occasional sounds from down the hall, from neighbouring rooms, but they are all subdued, filtered by the thick blanket of stillness.

 

“Did Theseus tell you about those statues?”

 

This new, sudden thread of conversation catches Percival by surprise. “Statues?” 

 

“The guardian statues down there. All over the park.”

 

“Only that they’re protecting the house,” he replies after a pause. “And one of your ancestors put them there.”

 

Newt nods, shifting a little to a more comfortable position. “Yes, as a safety measure. Only select members of the Scamanders family can control them. And only the current of head of the family can unlock their powers.”

 

“That’s only logical.”

 

“But how far you can control them is another matter entirely. Supposedly the better you are with magical creatures, the better you are at controlling those statues.”

 

Percival frowns but says nothing. He wonders what this is all about. For some reasons, tension has returned to Newt’s body, coiling tightly around his muscles. The topic cannot be only a meandering one.

 

“That’s why he married my mum,” Newt continues after a long pause, his voice louder, clearer, and somehow more vulnerable. “She was good with Hippogriffs.”

 

Percival does not often find himself at a loss for words, but he does now. He stares, unsure, at the sweep of hair that has fallen over Newt’s eyes.

 

“Do you know this for real, or is it your own conclusion?”

 

Newt tilts his head to look at him, cheek still resting on his chest. “Aunt Clementine told me. At dinner last night.”

 

“I see. And does Aunt Clementine hate you?”

 

That earns him a crack of a smile. “She does, rather. Ever since I was small. But that doesn’t mean what she said isn’t true.”

 

Percival refrains from saying out loud what he thinks about cruel aunts who find twisted pleasure in hurting their much younger relatives. “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t. But your mother has been gone for many years, so what does it matter now?”

 

Newt’s lips twitch, the smile widening into a grin. “You’re really a cold-hearted man, aren’t you, Mr Graves?”

 

“So your brother has accused me many, many times,” Percival says dryly.

 

Newt laughs but makes no reply, content to press his face to Percival’s shirt. They slip into another silence, less fraught but more delicate. Percival finds himself staring at the clusters of freckles across Newt’s cheeks. His chest is filled with so much tenderness for this boy who has carved a space for himself in Percival’s heart. He wants to protect Newt. The fact that he cannot disturbs him more than he wishes to admit.

 

“Can I ask you something?” Newt suddenly asks, detaching himself from Percival. “But promise me that you won’t get angry.”

 

Percival raises his eyebrows. “Not until I hear the question,” he replies gravely.

 

The boy rolls his eyes. “Are you that afraid of me?”

 

“You have no idea. What is the question?”

 

“Easy enough.” Another flash of that crooked, little smile. “Are you tired?”

 

Percival frowns. “Why would this question make me angry?”

 

“Because I haven’t told you why I asked.”

 

“And why, exactly, did you ask?”

 

“Because I want a fuck.”

 

Percival stares. A familiar feeling of helplessness—one that he has come to associate with Newt—ambushes him out of nowhere. Of course the boy will be the first to break their silence over this subject. Throwing them both into the fire seems to be his method of choice.

 

“I’m not sure if that’s wise,” Percival answers after a lengthy pause.

 

Newt looks away, pursing his lips. “Because of what happened last night?”

 

“Because of what happened last night.”

 

“And you think I was raped.”

 

Percival does not answer. Only hearing Newt say the word brings the taste of bile to his mouth. As much as he wants to believe that what he did was far from unwelcome, Percival cannot forget the way Newt looked at him last night.

 

“I told you I wasn’t.” A belligerent note enters the boy’s voice. “Shouldn’t I be the best judge for what did or did not happen to me?”

 

“In other cases, perhaps.”

 

“Why not in this one?” Newt is turning to face him again, fire in his eyes. “When will you stop treating me like a child? I _knew_ what I was doing and I _know_ now.”

 

Percival keeps his face expressionless. “I’m not convinced that you do.”

 

Newt is visibly getting angry. “What will it take to convince you? You already fucked me and you know what I liked–” The boy suddenly pauses, on his face the shocked expression of someone who has just seen a ghost. Then he laughs, short and shrill. “Oh. Is that what you want to hear? It is, isn’t it?”

 

Percival frowns. “That’s not–”

 

“I _liked_ it,” Newt declares, spits, loud and vicious. “I liked it then and I like it now. Do you hear me? I. Liked. It.”

 

Percival once stood in front of a tornado—experienced firsthand all the terrifying power and rage that nature could unleash, completely without regard to itself or any tiny creature standing in its way. This, facing Newt who is looking at him with wild, dangerous eyes, is not unlike that.

 

“Did you really?” he says flatly.

 

“I just told you that, didn’t I?”

 

It takes Percival a moment to notice that Newt is not the only one getting angry. His patience has been worn thin by the long dang and sleepless night, and now _this_.

 

“Look me in the eye and say that again.”

 

His tone is one he normally uses to stare down criminals. If Newt is at all surprised, he does not show it. The boy meets his gaze instead, his eyes the same striking shade of blue-green that so mesmerised Percival at their first meeting. Except maybe they shine too brightly. And maybe there is a slight quiver to his lips. Maybe this is another show of teenage stubbornness. Or maybe he is imagining everything and Newt truly means what he says.

 

“I. Liked. It.”

 

Percival is the one who breaks their eye contact. Weariness washes over him like a great wave; for a moment, all he wants is to be alone.

 

“You’re a terrible liar, Newt.”

 

The boy does not answer. There is still an arrogant tilt to his chin, stubbornness to the thin line of his mouth—all show, all bravado. Percival had seen it from the start. Nearly everything about Newt Scamander is a front. How could he still let the boy seduce him?

 

“You know what?” Newt finally opens his mouth, ready to accuse. “You could just say that you didn’t want me anymore.”

 

“I don’t want you anymore,” Percival repeats blandly—and sees the flinch, the devastation in Newt’s face. A sharp bolt of grim satisfaction shoots through him. Percival lets the moment linger, basking in it as he watches the boy struggling with the aftermath. Anger has its uses, and so does cruelty. He does not speak again until he thinks it’s enough.

 

“How does it feel to be lied to?”

 

Newt tenses, eyes widening. He looks like a kid who is both angry at his parents and longing for the Christmas present they put outside his door. The mixed confusion and hopeful relief and no little irritation makes an interesting tableau on his face. Percival keeps his straight.

 

“So you don’t believe me,” Newt says after a lengthy silence, visibly struggling for control.

 

“Tell me what exactly happened and maybe I will.”

 

Newt scowls. “Why does it matter so much? It was in the past. And it’s none of your business.”

 

“It is if you’re asking me to fuck you,” Percival says flatly.

 

“So what you’re saying is you’re not going to touch anyone who’s…”

 

There is a painful pause, loud in the absence of that word he abhors so much. For once, Newt seems to feel the same way. A few more layers of his pretence fall away and he is now white as sheet, freckles standing out stark. The look on his face makes Percival’s chest throb with pain.

 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he tries with a gentler tone. A wrong move, on hindsight. The boy is like a wild animal, striking as soon as he senses any weakness.

 

“At this moment, Mr Graves,” Newt’s voice is raw but even more cutting for it, “the only one you’re trying to protect is yourself. Please don’t pretend that it’s for my sake.”

 

Percival does not see red. He knows how it feels to see one and he does not now, but the surge of fury that bursts in his chest is enough to make him stride forward, toward Newt, and grab a fistful of his hair, yanking hard. The gasp of surprise (or pain, or both, he doesn’t exactly care at the moment) is like music to his ears.

 

“So you want me to treat you like this, don’t you? Treat you like a whore. To be used roughly. To be hurt. To be fucked until you scream and beg for me to stop.”

 

Newt does not answer—or cannot. His face is open, half-stunned, half-frightened. A kid wading too deep, out of his depth. Percival releases him with a snort and walks away. If he needs any more proof that Newton is still essentially a child, then this will certainly be it; all big speech and bluster, but once the real horrors are brought in front of his face, he has no idea what to do.

 

“I think you should leave,” Percival says brusquely. His hands are trembling. He only notices it when he pulls his jacket off and tosses it to a nearby chair. It’s the loss of control; he cannot remember the last time rage got the better of him. When he hurts someone, when he gives pain, it is always a conscious decision. Always a fully calculated act. This is neither. At the moment, he realises he does not trust himself.

 

“Neither of us are in the best frame of mind at the moment,” he continues when Newt makes no indication to go. “At least I’m not. It’s best that you leave.”

 

“That’s a terrible apology.” Newt suddenly says. His voice is faint, every word plagued by quivers, but it startles Percival enough that he cannot help but stare.

 

“I wasn’t apologising.”

 

“You should.” The boy is looking down at his hands. They are clutching each other, white-knuckled. “You did wrong.”

 

_Did you ask whoever it was to apologise too?_ Except Percival does not say it out loud. Cannot. There are plenty of lines he has crossed today; this will not be another one of them.

 

“You’re right,” he says after a long pause. “Whatever the reason, it wasn’t an excuse. I apologise for causing you pain.”

 

A small, bitter smile curls Newt’s lips. “You don’t like me much, do you, Mr Graves?”

 

Percival does not answer immediately. He sits on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. Guilt and shame begin to catch up with him; two sensations he is rather unfamiliar with—and always in connection with Newt. The boy is right. Why would Percival like anyone who seems bent on wrecking the perfect orderliness on his life?

 

Except he does. Lewis saves him but he does.

 

“You’re wrong about that,” he says softly, perhaps too softly. If Newt has heard him, then he makes no indication of it. His face is once more turned to the window and Percival watches him, watches the sharp profile of his cheekbones and the hair that curls on his nape until the sting of regret is too much to be ignored.

 

“I’m so sorry.”

 

Again, there is no response. Which probably is nothing more than what he deserves. Percival sighs, tiredness making its presence felt again, and closes his eyes. He is considering the possibility of stealing an hour’s nap when Newt finally breaks his silence.

 

“I heard lunch didn’t go well.”

 

The sudden change of subject is unexpected, but not surprising. It seems to be Newt’s habit whenever a topic has become too uncomfortable for him to discuss.

 

“Where did you hear that from?” Percival carefully asks.

 

“A little bird told me,” Newt answers, his face perfectly straight. Percival cannot help but wonder if the boy has meant that literally. He certainly will not put it past Newt to find a way to communicate with some of his favourite beasts.

 

“We never expect these meetings to be anything else than difficult.”

 

“Because both sides came here with their minds made up.”

 

“More or less.”

 

“Are you that eager to go to war?”

 

One day, Percival reflects, half in annoyance, half in amusement, Newt will learn that provocation is not always the best way to approach things. For now, he only shrugs and says, “It doesn’t really matter what I feel. This matter is far bigger than either you or me.”

 

“I heard that’s not exactly true in your case.”

 

“You heard a lot of things.”

 

“They say you can influence the way some things might play out,” Newt continues, completely ignoring his comment.

 

“Is that why you ended up in my bed so often?”

 

Newt tenses. Percival hides a grim smile. Again, directness seems to disorient the boy. He wonders if this is the best way of dealing with Newt, since handling him with kid gloves obviously does not work.

 

“I’m not a saint,” he speaks again when Newt does not answer. “I won’t be the first person running out of the door in pursuit of justice or to help others. That’s more your brother’s province. But as with everything else, there are limits. In the end, it’s a question of whether you’ll do something about it if it’s in your power to do so, especially when you know that something horrible is happening.”

 

Newt is frowning. “Do you see a lot of horrible things in your job?”

 

“Some. I don’t think it can be compared to a war though.”

 

“And you don’t want to avoid that?”

 

Percival considers his answer. “My grandfather was Director of Magical Security during the American Civil War.” He keeps his voice calm, meditative. Its effect on Newt is unmistakable. “Back then, MACUSA issued a warning against getting involved in any No-Maj conflict. The punishment was severe. It didn’t stop some people who were determined to take advantage of MACUSA’s absence. They made a tidy profit selling bits of magic —charms, amulets, simple potions—to terrified soldiers. Nothing too significant that might raise an alarm.”

 

“That sounds harmless enough.”

 

“It was, until the small bits of magic were no longer enough. Some of them began to sell spells, stored in small contraptions these people could be terribly creative. And then the stronger, more dangerous potions. Also magical creatures. My grandfather told me that at the end of the war, they discovered demiguises and bowtruckles in the possession of some No-Majs.

 

“It was a simple equation, really,” he continues with a sigh. “The No-Majs wanted stronger spells, stronger potion, because the opposing side also had witches and wizards working on their end. Their own personal magic source. Neither could lose, so they paid more and more. Few could resist. In the end, it became magic versus magic. The post-war months were a very busy time for the Obliviators.”

 

“So this is MACUSA learning from its past mistakes.”

 

“More or less. We’ve learned that staying away is not really the answer. And that isn’t even the most horrific story. Can you imagine what a supply of Polyjuice Potion or maybe an Imperius Curse can do to an entire army? And unlike us, No-Majs have no way to guard themselves against these things.”

 

Newt falls into contemplative silence. Percival considers him, the curve of his shoulders, the hunched way he is sitting, as if expecting a blow—and something inside him softens.

 

“Why do you oppose the idea of us joining the war so much?”

 

A scowl appears on Newt’s face. “You know what kind of person Theseus is. He’ll be the first to jump in once there’s a chance.”

 

Percival smiles. “He does have a very strong sense of right and wrong.”

 

“Unlike you, I suppose, considering what we–” Newt catches himself in time, flushing. No doubt he remembers Percival’s rejection to his advances only moments ago. Percival can almost see it, floating in the air between them like a thick, invisible wall.

 

He was the one who left that wall there; he is the one who can push through it.

 

Percival holds out one hand, palm up. “Come here.”

 

Newt’s lips twitch—an instinctive recoil. He is staring at Percival’s offered hand, saying nothing, but the rebuff is there. Nothing is as eloquent as defiance, loud or silent.

 

Percival says again, “Come here. Please.”

 

“You come here.”

 

The retort nearly makes him smile. Really, did he expect Newt to be anything but difficult?

 

“I already did. Now it’s your turn.”

 

“You just want me in your bed.” Newt winces and looks away, another flush threatening his cheeks. “Sorry.”

 

Percival keeps his expression serious. “Why sorry? I do want you in my bed.”

 

Newt does not answer for some time, keeping his eyes lowered. “You’re very confusing, Mr Graves,” he finally says.

 

“The feeling is very much mutual, I can assure you.”

 

That earns him a brief flash of a smile, if quickly suppressed. Percival is careful to return it, making sure that Newt sees it. His hand remains outstretched, a peace offering, until Newt rises and takes it with an exaggerated sigh. But his fingers are cold. Percival cradles them gently in his hand, drawing him in but keeping his grip loose enough that Newt will be able to pull away should he wish.

 

Newt does not. He follows quietly, a bit hesitantly, obeying the small tugs that lead him into the bed—so different from his usual brazen approach. He looks shy and small, and Percival hates how last night’s revelation makes him second-guess everything he does.

 

And he is completely unprepared when Newt leans in to steal a brief, light kiss.

 

Percival stares, surprised, and then laughs. He sees the timid answering smile, sees the relief mirrored in Newt’s expression when he realises that Percival is not going to push him away. Percival’s heart clenches at the sight, but he does nothing more than squeeze the boy’s hand. At the moment, the last thing he wants is to make Newt afraid.

 

“I’m really sorry.”

 

“You’ve said that,” Newt mumbles, and Percival ignores an urge to make him look up and kiss his bitten-red lips.

 

“Yes, but I have a lot of things to be sorry for.”

 

Newt does not answer; instead, he rises to his knees and takes his customary place in Percival’s lap. Surprise has become a familiar company by now. Percival forces himself to stay still, only watching. The boy is visibly nervous despite his effort to cover it.

 

Percival nearly pulls away when Newt touches his hair. Very few people have ever touched his hair; in fact, he cannot recall any instance from his adulthood that anyone did. Newt’s fingers feel alien, tangling and sinking deep. They move quickly, jerkily, as if trying to find a path that they are not quite sure is there. All the while, Percival waits. He knows that sooner or later, the pull will come.

 

But it does not. Instead, Newt’s hand slides away, just as quickly as it came, back to a fist on his side. He remains where he is but manages to look even more uncomfortable, avoiding Percival’s eyes.

 

“She’s very beautiful.”

 

Percival blinks at this sudden tangent. “Who?”

 

“Your lady friend.”

 

“Picquery?” He frowns, wondering where this might be going. “Yes, I suppose she is.”

 

“Have you ever considered dating her?”

 

_Ah_. “I have, actually,” he replies carefully.

 

“Marrying her?”

 

“That, too.”

 

Newt gives no outward reaction, but perhaps his voice is a shade frailer when he asks, “Then why aren’t you?”

 

Percival shrugs. “Honestly? There will be too many complications, with our positions and all. Besides, I’m old-fashioned.”

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

“I want to marry for love.”

 

Newt looks at him then. Slowly, very slowly, a smile spreads over his face.

 

“How can you say things like that with a straight face?”

 

“I’m an honest man,” Percival tells him solemnly.

 

The smile bursts into a laugh. Newt hides his face in the crook of Percival’s neck, shoulders shaking with laughter. A knot in Percival’s chest loosens, but another, a different one, tightens, filling every heartbeat with some unnamed ache. His arms come around Newt almost instinctively, cradling the warmth and the weight of him. Percival finds himself thinking that he wants to protect that laugh for a very long time.

 

“Please take better care of yourself,” he murmurs into Newt’s hair.

 

Newt does not lift his head, but exasperation is clear in his voice. “If you’re going to talk about this again–”

 

“This is the last time,” Percival tells him, quiet but firm; he does not make promises lightly. “I know it isn’t my business and I’m not trying to pry into yours. Just please, take care of yourself.”

 

Newt makes no answer. For once, Percival does not try to read into his silence—something that he will regret later.

 

“I wonder,” Newt speaks softly, so softly that Percival _feels_ more than hears it. He watches the boy through half-lidded eyes.

 

“You wonder?”

 

“If I...” Newt pauses, glancing at his face and then back down quickly. “Never mind.”

 

“What is it?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“You’re about to tell me something.”

 

“I was. Now I’m not.”

 

“But why?”

 

“No reason.”

 

Percival sighs. “Newt.”

 

“I’m not telling you,” Newt declares, lips pursed stubbornly. “You’ll just get angry again.”

 

“I won’t.”

 

“You will.”

 

“I _won’t_. I’m not going to let myself hurt you again.”

 

Newt shakes his head. “Not what I meant.”

 

“Then–”

 

“Why don’t you take a nap?” Newt quickly interrupts him. “You look tired.”

 

“I _am_ tired, but you–”

 

This time, Newt does not waste time with words. The press of his lips on Percival’s is insistent and, he must admit, if wryly, a far more convincing argument. Action does speak more loudly, even only as a diversion.

 

“Later,” Newt tells him, a smug hint in his voice. “You should rest first if you want to get mad at me properly.”

 

Percival rolls his eyes. “A week with you is like a decade.”

 

“You look remarkably young and handsome for a middle-aged man, Mr Graves,” Newt says solemnly. Percival assumes his most long-suffering expression.

 

“This is exactly what I mean.”

 

That earns him another grin as the boy moves over to the other side of the bed. “Can I stay? I promise I’ll be quiet.”

 

“What are you going to do while I’m sleeping?”

 

“I don’t know. Thinking, mostly. Formulating plans in case you get mad at me. And maybe do something to your face. How do you feel about a moustache?”

 

Percival groans, head sinking into the pillow. “Wake me up in an hour.”

 

 

–

 

 

Newt is gone when Percival finally wakes up—only twenty minutes before dinner.

 

Fifteen minutes of hurried preparation sees him properly (if not as immaculately) attired for the grand occasion. It is even grander than yesterday, elegant flowers and gold chandeliers competing for attention with crystal goblets and the finest silver cutleries. The feast is sumptuous, a succession of extravagant dishes one after another, each with different wine to match. The atmosphere is merry, ladies bedecked with jewels laughing with smartly dressed gentlemen, as if everyone is trying their hardest to show that they are having a good time.

 

Newt is seated rather far from him tonight. Percival catches glimpses of his anxious face every now and then; if anything, he looks even worse than he did this afternoon. Percival frowns but puts his concern aside for now.

 

The congenial atmosphere lasts until the ladies withdraw to the drawing room, led by their hostess. Then the Port and Firewhisky arrive. Alcohol pours and effectively loosens tongues. Before long, Evermonde’s cortege are freely—and loudly—trading opinions on the subject of war. Dominus Crouch is once more at the lead. With the absence of Picquery’s cool presence, he happily shifts his target to Theseus, who cannot be bothered to keep himself silent this time around.

 

“–surely not even you and your incurable selfishness can deny that this will affect the future of the whole magical world–”

 

“We are the British Ministry of Magic, Mr Scamander. Our chief concern should be the welfare of British wizards and witches, not–”

 

“So your suggestion is to abandon the European wizarding society to their plight–”

 

“–of which they are responsible! It’s their country, so it’s their responsibility! And there’s an easy solution to this problem, except that damn Olivier is too pig-headed to admit it!”

 

“You mean be cowards and hide and pretend that we’re not living in the same world as the Muggles?”

 

“Because we’re not!” Crouch’s face has turned into an angry shade of purple at this point. “Muggles are little more than apes wearing clothes and that’s a fact! Do we have to jump in every time these animals have a squabble? Our priority is with our own kind! Anyone who says otherwise is a traitor!”

 

Theseus rises to his feet. “From where I’m standing, sir, a traitor is someone who sits on his hands and does nothing while he is clearly able to do something. A traitor in every sense. You speak of our kind? What about our kind who live where battles rage? Where is your loyalty to them? They are, as you said, _our kind_.”

 

An ugly scowl twists Crouch’s face. “So proud and secure on your high morale ground, aren’t you, Mr Scamander? But also hand-in-hand with the French Minister, I heard. Are you sure you have the best of British interest in mind?”

 

“As if some lily-livered, boot-licking, arse-kissing coward has any right to–”

 

A loud sound interrupts the verbal fight. Everyone jumps in their seat, and it takes them a while to realise that the source of the sound is a large flower vase in the middle of the table. It has shattered, as if smashed by an invisible hand, except no one in the room can mistake the powerful twist of magic that trembles in the air.

 

“That is enough,” the Minister of Magic says in his cold, thin voice. His fingers flex on the table, causing a ripple of flinches. He is looking at no one in particular, but when his eyes finally find their mark, it turns out to be their host.

 

“I think, Mr Scamander,” he speaks in the same contemptuous voice, “that further education is required to discipline your heir. And do teach him to respect his elders.”

 

A flush of mortification spreads on Mr Scamander’s pale face. Theseus, miraculously, manages to hold himself back from making a bigger scene. He stands silent, motionless, face pale and livid and hands fisted at his sides. Every eyes are on him except, Percival notes with no small degree of unease, his brother’s. Newt is looking at the Minister with a strange kind of intensity.

 

“We will join the ladies,” Evermonde declares and rises to his feet. “I need civilised company.”

 

The rest shuffles after him in silence. Percival approaches Theseus, but the other Auror brushes past him, still stewing in anger. His eyes meets Newt for a moment, but the boy quickly looks away and slips out through a side door.

 

Picquery pulls him aside as soon as he enters the drawing room, eyebrows raised.

 

“What happened?”

 

“What was bound to happen, sooner or later,” Percival answers wryly.

 

“I heard shoutings.”

 

“In Theseus’s defence, Crouch started it,” he says with a sigh as Appleby comes to join them. “The strange thing is the two of us were there. And yet he chose to pick a fight with Theseus instead.”

 

A grimace twists Appleby’s face. “Not out of fear of us, I can assure you.”

 

Picquery nods in agreement. “One enemy inside is more dangerous than a legion across the ocean. In the end, there isn’t much we, as Americans, can do about this situation, is there? Your friend, on the other hand, is a veritable threat to the power balance in the Ministry.”

 

Percival does not answer. His attention is arrested elsewhere, namely the corner of the room currently occupied by two people. Evermonde has his back to him, but there is no mistaking his lavish robe with its jewel-trimmed sleeves. And Newt, Newt is smiling at him in a way that causes Percival’s stomach to curl unpleasantly.

 

“Graves?” Picquery’s voice reminds him that he is still in company. “Are you all right?”

 

“Fine,” he mutters, moving away from their little group. “Excuse me.”

 

He has barely taken two steps when Mrs Scamander makes her appearance, once again with the determination to steer the Minister elsewhere—this time to a lively discussion in the middle of the room about the National Quidditch Team. She is, as always, the picture of an impeccable hostess, but today Percival gives her a second look. Is it possible that she has actually seen more than she appears?

 

Newt has turned his attention to the content of a bookshelf when Percival reaches him.

 

“Is this the idea you told me about earlier?”

 

There is a smile on Newt’s face, but it’s tense and offers little humour. “See? I was right. You’re angry.”

 

“What are you doing?”

 

Newt shrugs and makes a show of selecting a thin book from the shelf and inspecting the content—a music score. “Looking for music.”

 

“Don’t play stupid.” Percival can barely restrain himself from shaking the boy hard. “What were you doing with Evermonde?”

 

“Jealousy doesn’t become you, Mr Graves.”

 

“Answer me.”

 

“Why should I?” A hint of anger comes to Newt’s voice. “You have no right to ask me anything. You’re not even my brother.”

 

“I can bring this to Theseus’s attention if you want.”

 

“And how would you do that without revealing your _involvement_?”

 

“I’d rather suffer your brother’s wrath,” Percival declares—and only realises that it’s true after the words have left his mouth.

 

If anything, it only increases Newt’s ire. “You really love playing the hero, aren’t you? And what exactly are you planning to tell him? That his brother is a whore?”

 

Percival scowls. “That’s not–”

 

“Isn’t it?” Newt cuts him off brusquely. “What do you think I was doing with the Minister? Admiring his jewels?”

 

“He’s dangerous.”

 

“He can give me what I want.”

 

Percival stares at him, horrified. “ _That_ ’s your intention? Don’t be stupid.”

 

The boy narrows his eyes. “I don’t remember hearing this objection when you had your cock up my arse, Mr Graves.”

 

“This is different,” Percival says stiffly.

 

Newt laughs, a low, cruel sound. “No, it isn’t. I wouldn’t seduce you if it weren’t for this.”

 

That _hurts_ , in ways that Percival totally did not expect. “You don’t know what you’re doing,” he says flatly. That it is the wrong thing to say is immediately evident. Newt’s expression shutters and his lips are a thin, stubborn line as he turns around, music pages clenched in his hand.

 

“Don’t I? Watch.”

 

And Percival does, numbly, as Newt takes his place at the piano; as he begins to play, nimble fingers on black and white keys; as he weaves a spell and entrances his audience with a sweet, light voice; as he makes a display of himself, of his skills, of his strange, elusive beauty, now put front and centre, soft and golden in the glow of candle light.

 

Percival feels sick. He sees Evermonde and the way the man runs a finger across his lips, eyes intent on Newt. He thinks of Theseus, who is stewing in anger elsewhere. Theseus would have put a stop to this. Or maybe not. Maybe he has no inkling at all, of Newt or his plan. Family can be especially blind and Theseus loves his brother too much. It’s the kind of love that cripples on both sides.

 

Appreciative applause greets the end of performance. Newt smiles bashfully, lashes lowered. The mood has been restored and the guests go to bed happy. Percival glimpses a smile, a whispered conversation. He knows that he will spend the night lying in his bed and listening for sounds. Any sound. Maybe the sound of soft footsteps. Or fabrics on the floor. Evermonde’s room is three doors away, further down the hall. He will know if someone tries to sneak past.

 

Except he probably won’t. Members of the family can Apparate in the house. Can secure the help of one of the house elves. Can have knowledge of some secret passage or other.

 

If he were Theseus, or had Theseus’s temperament, he would probably tie Newt to his bed and keep him here the entire night, if only to make sure. But he is not. He thinks, instead, about seeing red. That was what his grandfather called it—as if the colour, the nuance, the term, could describe what Percival felt when rage consumed him. The first time, he destroyed one wing of the house. The second time, he almost killed his grandfather, right after he had found out the black truth about his parents.

 

The third time has not happened yet. So far. Percival does not let it. But it doesn’t mean that he doesn’t feel it.

 

He feels it now, scratching the underside of his control.

 

The clock continues ticking, but the long, terrible night stays silent.

 

_**End Chapter 7** _

 


	8. Chapter 8

Neither brother appears at breakfast.

 

Percival registers this fact and promptly files it away as _pending future consideration, if necessary_. As it is, either absence does not say much, and after spending a sleepless night for the second time in a row, he cannot bring himself to care that much. Not even the fact that Evermonde comes down late means anything. Percival makes his observation quietly from across the dining table, but the Minister of Magic looks the same as always: sallow-faced with a pinched expression that suggests either a frown or a grimace.

 

The argument during last night’s dinner still leaves its mark this morning. The mood is frosty, awkward at best as most of the guests bend over their plates in silence. Only Mrs Scamander makes an effort to sustain a light conversation among those around her, and even that seems half-hearted at best. Appleby, who sits to her left, offers perfunctory responses in his quiet voice. Picquery, on the other hand, is silent, clearly preoccupied with her own thoughts.

 

When Evermonde rises and approaches their host, whispering in his ear, no one at the table even bothers concealing their staring. Any pretence at conversation ceases at once. Even Mrs Scamander looks worried. Percival trades glances with Picquery, suddenly wary.

 

It is only after the Minister has left the room that Mr Scamander addresses his guests.

 

“If I may have your attention for a moment,” he speaks quickly, the sharpness in his unsympathetic voice even more pronounced. “After breakfast, there will be an announcement. An important one that concerns us all. Please head to the library as soon as you are done.”

 

Plenty of looks are exchanged at the end of the announcement but very little words. Percival reads the same disquiet in Picquery’s face and quickly follows her and Appleby out of the dining room.

 

“What is he doing?” she demands in a low voice.

 

“The possibilities are endless, considering last night’s debacle,” Percival replies wryly. “Won’t surprise me if it’s something drastic.”

 

“But what?”

 

“I can only think of one thing.” Appleby frowns. “But it doesn’t make sense.”

 

Picquery tenses. “You think he’s going to put a leash around the British wizarding community?”

 

“I think he’s convinced that he has enough support to do it.”

 

“The ICW won’t let him.”

 

“He can hide behind Article 127. We used it to justify MACUSA’s non-involvement in the No-Maj Civil War.”

 

“At a great cost,” Percival points out.

 

“True.” Appleby nods grimly. “And this one… I don’t like saying it, but it may develop into the worst—and biggest—conflict we’ve seen yet. It’s one thing to protect oneself, but if the casualties are too great, the ICW will not be so merciful.”

 

Picquery says nothing for some time. Percival can almost see the tangle of thoughts in her mind, a great network of cobwebs linking innumerable causes and countless effects. “You should talk to Scamander,” she finally says, looking at him.

 

Percival nods. “I will, but my guess is he already suspects as much.”

 

They join the stream of guests heading to the library. The room is by no means small, but the number of people, as well as the thick cloud of tension hanging in the air, creates an uncomfortable, stifling atmosphere. A murmur of conversation crowd in the background, low and anxious. Percival stays near the windows, watching the room. Only Dominus Crouch and his circle look calm—in fact, almost smug.

 

Theseus appears some time later, looking like he has barely slept at all for days. He spots Percival at once and makes his way across the room, ignoring the rest of the guests.

 

“I need to talk to you,” he says urgently, laying his hand on Percival’s arm.

 

“So do I, but let’s wait until Evermonde has made his announcement.”

 

Theseus’s dark-ringed eyes widen. “What announcement?”

 

Evermonde makes his appearance at that moment, stately and grim in his official robe. Conversations die as everyone anxiously watches the Minister take his place at the centre of the room.

 

“As we all know,” he begins without preamble, “a Muggle conflict is now spreading across Continental Europe. Not a rare occurrence if you are at all familiar with Muggle history. What makes this one more worthy of note is its impact in our society due to the involvement of certain wizarding government in said conflict.”

 

“France,” a female voice somewhere to Percival’s right murmurs, prompting several others to shush her into silence.

 

“I originally planned to observe how the situation would develop in the next few months,” Evermonde continues in the same cool, didactic tone. “However, other factors recently came into light, and after careful considerations, I have reached the conclusion that further delay on this matter will be disastrous. Events in the last few days in particular have convinced me that certain factions may feel compelled to act rashly unless prematurely curbed. To make sure that nothing undesirable happens that will threaten the continuity of peace in our community, the Ministry of Magic has decided to take the following steps.

 

“Tomorrow morning, the Ministry will introduce new emergency legislation to prohibit any member of the British wizarding society to involve themselves in _any_ major ongoing conflict in the Muggle world, especially the one plaguing Europe right now. This course of action is necessary to prevent major breaches of the Statute of Secrecy, which may—and will, I assure you—lead to exposure. Given what is at stake, the penalty must be severe. Anyone who is discovered to be involved, either actively or passively, in a major Muggle conflict will be branded a criminal and dealt with accordingly.” He pauses, his gaze sweeping the entire room without settling on anyone in particular. “And so will every member of their family.”

 

A startled murmur of protests rise in the wake of the announcement. Percival sees the spatter of disbelief and fury across Theseus’s face. “Harsh as it may sound,” Evermonde is still speaking, “this measure is nothing short of necessary. The overall safety of our community is paramount…”

 

The rest of the speech is a blur, mere repeats of his earlier sentiments. Percival concentrates on digging his fingers into Theseus’s arm, and as soon as Evermonde has left the room, he pulls his enraged friend outside, into the sunlit grounds.

 

“Calm down. It’s not as bad as you think.”

 

“Not as bad!” Theseus looks like only seconds away from punching him in the face. It is another of those uncompromisingly bright morning, and under the merciless sun, every line on his face stands in stark relief, born of ire and fatigue.

 

“Yes.” Percival keeps his voice level. “Because he has his eyes on you, but that’s all he has for the moment. He can’t charge you if anything yet. So keep your head down for now and remember where you are. Remember your brother.”

 

That, predictably enough, manages to catch Theseus’s attention long enough to distract him. “You think he’ll go after Newt too?”

 

_I think he already did_ , Percival does not say. _And your brother thought it would keep you here._

 

“He’s still at school,” he replies carefully instead. Percival Graves may be capable of a lot of things, but destroying his friend at a crucial moment of his life is not one of them. “He’ll be safe for now, but that’s all the more reason why you should be careful. Evermonde brings family into play for a reason.”

 

Theseus is pacing and wringing his hands. “I don’t care about my father. And Katarina definitely can take care of herself. But Newt—I won’t let anything happen to Newt.”

 

Percival considers his answer for a moment. “Your brother is not as weak as you think,” he says at last.

 

“Not ‘weak’.” Theseus makes an impatient gesture. “Newt isn’t weak. But you didn’t see him after my mother’s death. What kind of an older brother I am if I cause him harm instead of do everything I can to protect him?”

 

“So what are you going to do now?”

 

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Theseus sighs, rubbing his face. “I spoke to Potter last night. You can expect a letter from him soon—or however he chooses to contact you.”

 

“You _spoke_ to him?”

 

A hint of Theseus’s usual mirth returns to his face. “You have your ways, Graves, I have mine.”

 

“Of course.” Percival smiles wryly. “My second address?”

 

“I thought it’d be safer. Should I have given him the third instead?”

 

“No matter, I’ll sort it out later. Will you keep communicating with him?”

 

“Yes, but mostly as a front, I think. They’re already monitoring my communication—it’s useful to have at least one friend _everywhere_ —so I’ll just keep sending him letters packed with useless information. They can have fun trying to decipher a secret message in those.”

 

“You can tell him about the Minister’s new decision.”

 

Theseus is grinning as they start heading back to the house. “I’ll do that. And I’ll make sure to throw the most colossal tantrum and use the filthiest words imaginable to abuse the old prick. That’ll be cathartic.”

 

“And convincing, since they know how voluble you can be.”

 

“Ass,” Theseus mutters, bumping their shoulders together. “Thank you, by the way.”

 

“Don’t think about it,” Percival says solemnly. “This is going straight into your pile of IOUs.”

 

Theseus rolls his eyes. “Of course. Didn’t expect anything less from you. By the way, have you seen Newt?”

 

The question catches him off-guard. “Not since last night,” he answers cautiously, thinking of the drawing room, gilt in candlelight and filled with siren song.

 

“He wasn’t in his room this morning—and the bed wasn’t slept in. Never mind. I’ll look for him later. Probably spent the night in the forest or something. He hates house parties.”

 

Percival returns to his room feeling queasy. He finishes his preparation for departure with most of his mind occupied elsewhere, in exploration of increasingly darker possibilities. In the end, he admits that there is nothing he can do about Newt. The boy does not wish for his interference, let alone his help. Percival will return to New York and, with time, this will be chalked up in memory merely as another unpleasant business resulting from too little judgment. He will earn a lesson from the experience, become more careful in the future. A neat end to a slight wrinkle.

 

“Ready?” Picquery knocks on his door a moment later. “Appleby is already downstairs. They have a Portkey to London ready for us, but it’s some distance away.”

 

“Because of the ward around the estate,” Percival says, slipping his wand into an empty pocket of his coat—except it isn’t empty. There is something there that does not belong. A small piece of parchment, tucked safely in the hidden depth.

 

“Graves?”

 

“You go on ahead,” Percival finally answers when he can trust his voice to speak, eyes still on the parchment. “I’ll Apparate to London. There’s something I need to discuss with Theseus.”

 

“If you’re sure.” Picquery sounds rather curious.

 

“Yes.” Percival looks at her, smiling tightly. “I’ll see you later.”

 

To his relief, she does not push and departs with a nod instead. He returns his attention to the parchment, to the two words scrawled inside.

 

_I’m sorry._

 

The parchment bursts into flame. Percival casts the blackening remains into the empty grate with a snarl, finding little satisfaction in the act. He recognises the handwriting; the same quill wrote him so many times only two days ago. However, it’s the fact that it has been slipped into his pocket instead of left in the open, on the bed or on top of his trunk, that makes his cooling anger boil again to the surface.

 

Such a cowardly way out. If he had not happened to misplace his holster and put his wand there, the note would have gone unnoticed for days. He would have been back in New York—if he discovered it at all.

 

Mouth set in a grim line, Percival grabs his trunk and makes his way downstairs, outside, into the woods.

 

 

-

 

 

It does not take him long to find Newt—not with the aid of his magic.

 

The boy is curled under a tree, on a bed of cool earth and fallen leaves. A long robe covers the entire length of his body. He seems asleep, but his eyes fling open at the sound of Percival’s approach and he sits up at once, face set in a grimace.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

The brusqueness in his tone does little to improve Percival’s temper. “I thought you’d like to know the result of your efforts.” It requires his entire self-control to keep his expression aloof, his voice matter-of-fact. “After all, you’ve worked very hard to achieve it.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Newt declares, but the words are rough, as if they burn his throat.

 

Percival’s lips curl in disdain. “Don’t be too modest. Success is success, whatever the means.”

 

Newt makes no answer. He looks down instead, at the scuffed ends of his shoes. Percival continues. “The Minister is going to declare a ban. Any British wizard involved in the war will be declared criminal and arrested.”

 

“I know,” Newt snaps. “He told me.”

 

“Before or after he got his cock in you?”

 

Percival regrets them as soon as the words have left his mouth, but there is no taking them back. Newt does not flinch, eyes still on his shoes, fingers wrapped around his knees. Only his face has gone a shade paler, the freckles stark and ugly.

 

“After.”

 

There is one terrible moment in which Percival is sure that rage has finally got the better of him. His ears fill with a loud, shrill noise and magic crackles, roaring in his veins. He has no choice but to unleash it.

 

But the moment abruptly ends. In its wake is an unpleasant, nauseating sensation of loss. Percival stares blankly at Newt’s deathly white face and realises that the poisonous rage is still there. Robbed of its chance for a grand release, it sinks into itself and solidifies into a tight, unborn coil of hate, clinging to every strand of thought.

 

“You’re such a stupid, _stupid_ boy,” Percival snarls. Every syllable is heavy, dripping with fury. “He was heading for this decision all the way, with or without your help.”

 

“I had to make sure,” Newt says in a small voice.

 

“By _whoring_ yourself out?”

 

“If that is what it takes.”

 

Percival snorts contemptuously. “Of course. I bet you like it, thinking that you’ve sacrificed yourself for your brother’s sake. Except this isn’t going stop Theseus and you know it. He’s a good man. He’s going to follow his heart and do what’s right, whatever it takes. All you did was make it worse for him. More dangerous. And when he’s finally caught breaking the law, are you going to whore yourself out again to buy his freedom?”

 

There is only a half-a-second pause before the reply arrives. “If there’s no other way,” Newt answers blandly. “It’s a low enough price to pay.”

 

“And you don’t care how your brother might feel if he finds out, do you?” Percival retorts. “What about his happiness? What about what _he_ wants? Do you ever think about that? Or are you such a selfish, childish brat that you literally can’t care about anything else except what _you_ want?”

 

Newt’s face has taken a greenish tinge, like he wants to throw up, but the boy stubbornly makes no answer. Percival watches him, barely registering anything outside the hot swirl of rage inside him. Still, old habits die hard. The tiny slivers of observation make their way to the back of his mind. Slowly, they form a picture, one too horrendous for words

 

When the horrible realisation slams into the fore, Percival is not prepared for it.

 

“Take off your clothes.”

 

Newt’s eyes dart up, a jerky, panicked reaction. “No,” he says thickly, drawing his robe even more tightly around himself.

 

“Take them off.”

 

“No.”

 

“Do it or I’ll do it for you.”

 

Fear finally trickles into Newt’s expression. Percival feels a sharp flicker of triumph, but it’s small and distant, utterly worthless compared to the maelstrom of horror that threatens the edge of his thoughts. “Please don’t do this,” the boy has been reduced to begging by now, his voice thick with tears. “Please. You’re a good man. Please let me remember you as a good man.”

 

Percival stares in disbelief. “What do you think I’m going to do?”

 

Newt only shakes his head and mutters another soft ‘please’. He looks so broken and terrified that Percival can feel his anger slowly drain away.

 

“Newt.” He advances slowly, carefully, all too aware of the way Newt curls into himself at his approach. Then, still a distance away, he lowers himself to a crouch. “What did he do to you?”

 

The boy swallows, eyes fixed unseeing at some distant, imaginary point. “Nothing.”

 

“Don’t lie.”

 

“Nothing I didn’t allow him.”

 

Percival briefly wonders how many times he has to batter this exact same wall until it crumbles. “You’re still saying that now?”

 

“It’s true.” A hint of defiance returns to Newt’s voice. “I’m not a victim, Mr Graves.”

 

And that, Percival realises as another wave of helplessness threatens to sink him, must be the true crux of the matter. The boy is now staring at him, so defiant, so young and stubborn and foolish. So vulnerable. Except anything is better than admitting to his own vulnerability. Percival knows how it feels, to cling to that one shred of pride, only too well.

 

“Please don’t look at me like that,” Newt whispers, his lips trembling.

 

“He hurt you,” Percival states blankly.

 

“You don’t understand.” Newt is shaking his head. “I came to his room. I let him touch me. I let him fuck me. Fuck my mouth. Fuck my ass. And not just once or twice. He had this potion and he just kept– And he called me names. And I let him. I let him hurt me too. I could’ve told him to stop, couldn’t I? But I didn’t. I let him do anything he wanted. I _let_ him.”

 

“He hurt you,” is the only thing that Percival can bring himself to say.

 

Newt draws a shaky breath, eyes squeezed shut. Then a ghost of a smile comes to his lips. “I don’t regret it, you know? I’ll do anything to keep Theseus safe.”

 

“But to go this far?”

 

“If you have to watch the only person you ever love, the only person who’s ever _loved you,_ march to war for a cause that doesn’t even have anything to do with him—no. I’m not going to let him.”

 

_The only person who’s ever loved you?_ Percival’s heart clenches at the rather pathetic declaration. He knows what love is, the many degrees and shades of it. The brothers obviously love each other, but for the first time, he feels like he finally has an inkling what Theseus really means to his little brother.

 

“I’m only sorry that I hurt you,” Newt continues in a softer voice. “You’ve always been so kind to me.”

 

Percival inhales deeply and counts to ten before trying once more. “Let me see.”

 

Newt recoils. “No.”

 

“I can heal you.”

 

“I’m fine. It’s not that bad.”

 

“How would _you_ know?” Percival spits, impatience rearing its head again. “You couldn’t even tell when someone hurt you.”

 

“I’ve had worse. At least, he _did_ heal me–”

 

Percival stops listening. His fingers twitch and he lets his magic leap from the tips, just enough to vanish Newt’s clothes.

 

A small, high-pitched sound escapes Newt’s throat and one hand flies to cover his face. Percival stares.

 

Once, he saw a watercolour painting just like this, smudged colours and distorted silhouettes, bleeding all over an artist’s canvas. On skin, the horror is multiplied. He stares at the motley of sickly yellow and murky blue scattered all over Newt’s chest and arms, and then the long, scabbed-over strips down his back and thighs—all stories of days old. Except Percival knows, without a doubt, that they have not been there yesterday. And _he_ definitely did not lay a hand on Newt. Not in this way. The implication that it _might_ be him who hurt Newt makes him feel sick.

 

“He didn’t heal you,” Percival hears himself say. His voice sounds strange, like someone is putting a pressure around his throat. “This is to protect himself, the fucking bastard.”

 

“At least it doesn’t hurt anymore,” Newt murmurs weakly, still covering his face.

 

“And that’s it? It doesn’t hurt anymore, so everything is _fine_?”

 

Newt shakes his head but makes no answer. “Are you done?” he asks instead. “Can I have my clothes back, please?”

 

Percival returns everything without a word and stands up. Newt quietly slips them on, leaving only the robe to pool around his feet. His movement is stiff, careful, with no unnecessary action. Clearly, they have very different understanding on what “doesn’t hurt anymore” means.

 

“Your brother is going to kill Evermonde.”

 

Newt whips up his head. “You cannot tell him,” he whispers, eyes wide with panic. “Please. You have to promise-”

 

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Percival says darkly. The boy visibly flinches.

 

“But it doesn’t have anything to do with him,” Newt pleas, now close to tears. “Please don’t tell him. Please.”

 

Percival clenches his teeth. The small, desperate plea is so pathetic that he has to swallow another urge to destroy something. “That bastard deserves everything Theseus is going to do to him,” he says flatly.

 

“I’ve told you, I was the one who–”

 

“And I’ll be very happy to help.”

 

Newt bites his lips, looking away. “As lovely as that sounds, it’s not worth it.”

 

Swearing under his breath, Percival crosses the gap between them. He doesn’t know if he wants to hit the boy or hug him—not until his arms settle around the thin, bruised body. Newt stiffens. Every inch of his body is resisting the contact, but Percival firmly pulls him into his arms.

 

“You don’t think you’re worth it?” he demands, indignant. “Don’t you know that you mean absolutely the world to Theseus?”

 

“That’s not true,” Newt says faintly.

 

“You don’t believe that your brother loves you?”

 

“He’s not going to stay even if I ask.”

 

“Did you _ask_?”

 

“It wouldn’t make any difference.” There is only quiet matter-of-fact-ness in Newt’s voice. “You said it yourself, he’ll always follow his heart. He wants to do what is right. It would be unfair to make him choose.”

 

“So you thought you’d just remove the choice for him,” Percival murmurs, head reeling. Never has he met someone so reckless. So preposterous. So foolhardy.

 

“I didn’t know what else to do,” Newt says miserably. Small tremblings begin to shake his form. “I suppose you’re right. The Minister knew that too. He knew why I went to him. He told me the price I had to pay. And so I paid. In full. That did make me a whore, I suppose.”

 

Percival fights down another surge of fury. The idea that Evermonde dared to take advantage of Newt is not surprising. What golden opportunity it must have been, to have the boy offering himself like that. He could have taken what was offered and nothing more, but greed is often too demanding a master. He saw the chance, seized it, and then made precautions that any evidence left would be against him. For a man who makes calculations daily in political ebb and flow, it must have been as easy as taking candy from a baby.

 

“That’s not true,” Percival says roughly. “You’re not a whore, Newt. And don’t fucking listen to me when I’m angry.”

 

“But you’re not wrong.” Newt’s voice has regained most of its calm. He sounds mostly resigned. “I got what I wanted using my body. Isn’t that what whores do?”

 

Percival does not answer. He cannot find a reply that will not make it worse, and so he only tightens his arms around Newt. The way the boy clings to him is nothing short of heart-breaking and he cannot help wondering if, _if_ he had gone against his better judgment and convinced Theseus to forget about the war, then maybe Newt wouldn’t have gone this far. Maybe.

 

There is nothing more useless than wishful thinking.

 

“Do you hate me now?” Newt asks him softly.

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Please don’t lie.”

 

“I’m not lying,” Percival answers, staring at trees and thinking of roots of reasons, branches of choices. “You’re bull-headed and infuriating as fuck and you never think clearly before you act. I do want to shake you at times, but I don’t hate you.”

 

This time, Newt manages a small, brittle smile, a soft curve resting just under Percival’s collar. “That’s just because you have a kind heart.”

 

Percival makes no reply. He never thinks of himself as a kind man. He is _not_ a kind man. No one, if they know what manner of thoughts lurking inside him at the moment, will call him a kind man. The thick, black rage rolling under his skin is ready to lay waste on anyone and anything, guilty or not. A part of him, a very big part, will gladly let Evermonde have a taste of what Percival can do for hurting this boy in his arms. This boy that smells like the sun and wreaks havoc like a storm.

 

“When are you sailing out?” Newt asks again, a touch more timid. “Or is it a Portkey?”

 

“Portkey. In three hours.”

 

“Then you need to go back.” The boy pulls away, back straight, hair in his eyes. Percival cannot remember the last time he wanted to kiss someone so much. “Better not be late. But thank you for coming to see me. And,” he pauses, hesitating, “if you can, please don’t remember me too badly. In fact, don’t remember me at all if it’ll just annoy you.”

 

“I don’t think not remembering you is at all an option,” Percival says wryly.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“Now it’s you who can’t stop saying sorry,” he chides. Newt laughs, a small, delicate sound, and it’s simply ridiculous how that small sound can unleash such a great wave of relief inside Percival. For once, he does not resist when his impulse makes him lean in slightly and press a kiss on Newt’s forehead.

 

The boy looks stunned for a moment. Then he smiles, looking shyly grateful. “I’ll be all right, don’t worry.”

 

“If there’s anything you need, or want,” Percival starts, but quickly trails off. Even then, he knows that it will be nothing but words. He can always recognise an empty promise when he hears one, let alone when he _makes_ one. As soon as he returns to New York, his life will swallow him. A thousand demands from his career and status will occupy his entire sphere of focus. Above all, he knows himself too well. No matter how uneasy Newt rests on his conscience at the moment, time will erase anyone and anything soon enough. This is simply how he functions.

 

But now he looks at Newt, at his red eyes and brave face and still-too-thin shoulders, and the decision comes to him out of nowhere. Percival seizes it before he can think twice.

 

“Actually I’m wondering if you’d like to come to London with me for a few days.”

 

Newt freezes. His face betrays his disbelief and confusion, and so Percival continues, “I’ve been meaning to see a bit of No-Maj— _Muggle_ —London, so why not now? I still a few days off left and I can always go back on Thursday. What do you think?”

 

It takes Newt a long time to respond. When he finally does, he slowly raises his face, his expression completely neutral. Percival has seen it enough times by now that he can guess what is coming.

 

“Is this because you pity me?”

 

“More like because I care about you.”

 

Newt looks genuinely dumbfounded. “You do?”

 

“Do you think I would be here if I didn’t?” Percival replies dryly.

 

“And you want me to…” The boy frowns, uncertain.

 

“I’ll be glad for your company. There are museums I want to visit. And perhaps we can catch a play or an opera if there happens to be a good one. Too few opportunities to see those back in the States.”

 

“I’ve never seen a play,” Newt says in a small, self-conscious voice. “Or an opera.”

 

“Really? I thought they were very popular here.”

 

“Maybe, but my parents are purists, as I’m sure you’ve noticed. Anything related to the Muggle world is beneath them. And Theseus doesn’t really have much interest in those things.”

 

“Then I suppose it’s up to me to broaden your horizon in this field,” Percival says, smiling.

 

After a long pause, Newt finally returns the smile, bashful and sweet. “I’d like that,” he replies quietly.

 

“Then pack a bag. We’ll Apparate to London.”

 

Newt starts turning around, but then hesitates, one hand indecisive in the air. “Are you sure you want me to come? Won’t you be busy with work?”

 

“Not for a few days.” Percival is already rearranging his schedule in the back of his mind. There is no pressing matter requiring his attention back home; a few more days will be all right. ”Besides, I have an excuse for staying. And I’d really like your company.”

 

A gleam comes to Newt’s eyes. “I’ll go and pack at once.”

 

“Don’t forget to tell your brother.”

 

“I’ll say that I need some time away in the woods by myself,” Newt declares. “Promise that you’ll be here?”

 

“Ten minutes.”

 

Newt returns in five.

 

_**End** _

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NO THIS DOES NOT END HERE. There will be a sequel called _A Young Man About Town_ , set in London, and it will be seen from Newt's POV, hence making it a separate fic entirely. For anyone who's waiting for Newt's backstory, that's where it will come to light. 
> 
> Thank you for everyone who's been reading and supporting this fic so far. Please let me know what you think and/or if you have suggestions for improvement :)


End file.
